I got an interesting email this week, and I was meaning to write about that as my weekly post. However, I just thought of something much more relevant to how I’m feeling right now; and I think it’d be more than a shame not to put it down into words while I’m on this emotional high.
For the last several years, I’ve been thinking about my book, my story. It’s been my biggest dream in life to have a successful series with my name on the cover, because these are the things that taught me while I was growing up (and still do now). Books taught me everything I know and value, and the only way I see that I can properly even come close to giving thanks is to write my own books that inspire others, just as I was. And so, after the culmination of several events, which includes leaving behind my video game addiction, meeting the girl who told me I could do it, and a hell lot of spare time, I started writing down every idea I’d ever had for my story. I finished it a few months ago, but I’ve been editing away ever since.
And I truly love it.
But I can’t work full time. I try to, yes, but the quality quickly deteriorates, or it churns out much slower. I have to edit in sessions or else I get sick of it, and it’s just a very slow process. So what do I do in the meantime? I do the most amazing thing in the world — I dream about the sequels. I dream about what these characters that have come out of my fingertips are going to go through. I dream about their struggles and their hardships; and the climaxes in all their lives when every problem they’ve ever had finally solves itself and it all finally comes together.
I never knew you could feel this way about anything. That these feelings even existed was unknown to me until now, even incomparable to riding a jetski or getting drunk. While writing the book I always complained how I would never get the full effect that others would get from reading it, or that I would never feel the same surprise and awe and shock that I feel when reading a new book. It sucks that you can’t realistically compare your own work to another, because you made the ups and downs, the highs and lows. But then you realize there is something much greater than that feeling ever could replicate — and that’s being the person who dreams all this up.
And you fall in love with it all. You fall in love with the characters who write themselves and who exist more to you than most people you know in real life. It’s not even work. Sure, it can get tiresome, but any activity that involves repetition (and even not) gets that way eventually. But you get to a point, where the characters write themselves. You don’t have to force it out or make up stories in your head, because after a while it just happens. It just pops out and you smile and laugh from what your characters have told you to write about them. You connect dots that were previously unseen, you hear voices that were just whispers before, and you just type. You just type and type and let it all out and you dream and hope and pray that perhaps someday, people will love it so much that you won’t have to do anything else in life other than more of this.
These characters are my friends, more than Frodo or Harry or Aslan could ever be. And I don’t want them to die, I don’t want them to experience pain, I don’t want them to ever be upset, but they have to go through it. It’s a bittersweet experience, one I would never give up for anything, because in the end I know that everything will be alright. For years I’ve dreamed of these people in my head, and to finally see them and be upset with them and love them is just… an amazing thing.
Sometimes my not-so-close friends ask me what I’m doing, and I tell them I’m writing. They then ask me what’s wrong with me, taking pity on why I never go out. I just reply with a smiley face and go about my day; but in my head, I’m taking pity on them because they’ll never know what this feeling is like.