I might have a slight obsession with books. It’s pretty much as simple as that. The way some people freak-out out about actors and actresses, musicians and bands, I fangirl-out about authors. There’s something attractive and alluring about someone with an imagination so expansive that complex characters stand up on paper and walk off the page in a quest to tell a story. To many people, these characters become almost real, tangible people, and it can get hard to separate the real world with the one the author has created.
In his memoir On Writing, Stephen King says that writing is telepathy, a communication between writer and reader within the wide expanse of time and space– “a meeting of the minds,” he says. It’s complete magic, and isn’t it beautiful?
As embarrassing as it is to admit it, my dream is to join King’s club, to become a member of the published community where people meet with coffee in hand to pour over my characters and my plot and my themes and my symbols. As narcissistic as that sounds, I’m just not that good. I’ve come to accept that I may never be a well-renowned literary figure, and really I’m okay with that. That doesn’t mean that I’m not going to stop trying to get better and refine and reinvent whatever it is I do. That doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy throwing words down on paper, even if they aren’t worthy of literary merit. That doesn’t mean that I’m withholding hope that one day I might get an idea so freaking awesome and will have the ability and skills to peck the words carefully, deliberately, and purposefully onto my screen.
It could happen.
And it just might.