The idea is there.
The story stirs in my mind. Why do I want to do it? Spend years writing a book. Think of all the other things I could do with this time. Shows watched, friends partied with, and hobbies taken up.
BUT I’m invested in the book. Hooked from the first sentence written. Not a little either. I knew at that moment the whole book would get written. Whether it ends up in the garbage or on the store shelves, doesn’t matter. The Muse, the Soup, God, whatever you want to call it, spoke to me. Not a voice but a feeling. Creativity and light poured from my brain onto paper. Yes, I wrote. Yes, I edited. Yes, I did it. But it didn’t come from me. Or, it did. I don’t know.
I know this. Every time I write, I’m pulled deeper into this world. Sights and sounds reach me. Details that were words before take on life. The world shifts and I see myself there. Want to know the most interesting thing? I smell the fields on fire. I taste the fear of not knowing. The anguish of betrayal. The pain from falling. The desperation to survive. The horror at what I’ve become. While writing I know I’ve struck gold when my heart races. The beats pick up, I sweat a little. Hoping my character makes it. Willing her forward. It’s a rush like no other.
I know how it ends. I wrote the ending, in my mind. But the details of exactly what happened keep changing. It’s exciting. I’m getting to write my own novel. The characters will do what I want them to do. I explore the human experience through my different characters. Each reaction or nuance came from me.
Writing is hard… and exhilarating. It is also exhausting. Living your characters in your mind. Thinking. What would they see next? How would they react? Who are they becoming?
