A Different Kind of Writing
I want to write a book. It’s been an idea that I’ve always toyed with, the thought of going author, but I’ve never taken it seriously. For one thing, I myself am terribly critical of the literary products of others, and to potentially have that sort of criticism turned on me? I don’t think at this point in time that I’m sure of myself enough to let that critique roll off my back. I’m sure the thumbs-downs will come too, on the first hand because there are always detractors no matter how popular the book is, and on the other hand because I’m such a hopeless romantic at times that I know I won’t be able to stop it from creeping into my work. Even when I’m scoffing at how cliche and unrealistic Book X is, I know that I’ll probably write some of the same, given the chance, and whether I see it for what it is or not. The stuff I dream up when I’m lying in bed almost asleep, as if I’m the main character and the life she lives is mine, that stuff isn’t fit for anything but a harlequin romance, and I know that I don’t want to write one of those.
And plus, I don’t have any idea, not even one clue, about what I want to write. No seed of a plot, no vague outline of a character, not even an inkling of where to begin. One could say that an idea is the most important part, and I’ve got no clue.
Yet oh, to write a book. To create my own world, fabricate my own characters and throw them into that world and watch them make of it what they will…the thought of that appeals to me tremendously. Maybe it’s my vanity coming in, because in some ways it’s a little like playing god—to write the rules of what does and doesn’t exist: magic, deities, continents, customs, traditions, creatures, regimes. It’s such a project, but I would enjoy it beyond all measure.
We’ll see. I’ve got time; maybe one day it’ll be reality.
