You know, reading a really good book always gets me excited to write all over again. Like reinventing the wheel every few days, if the book was a good one.
The book I just finished wasn’t amazing, didn’t blow me out of the water fantabulous. But it was good, really good.
And that’s just the thing – now isn’t it?
That’s why we do this thing. Writing.
Regardless of the rewriting and critiquing and cringing when people tell you that your book has some major issues and you’re red with anger or green with vomit faced embarrassment. The burn of rejection when another literary agent doesn’t love your story. It rips your heart out and spins your head in twenty different directions. But you keep writing, rewriting, sending to beta readers, off for critiques and querying agents. It’s all because the story is swarming about in your head and it can’t be ignored. The characters – they’re people. They’re real. They live, they breathe. They have something to tell you, to show you. Something that means something to you.
And it’s beautiful and tragic and hideous and amazing all at once.
It’s nothing but a book to some people. Just a book. Ink and paper and binding and words strung into sentences that have no value other than the press bought to print it.
But to us – to me – the story is everything. It is who I am. All the stories living inside me. Taking flight with wings of night and scales and the bite of fanged smiles. The slow creep of cold, watchful morning, while the mist clears and the life blinks into blurred eyes and the silent things continue to creep away. Out of sight.
But mostly, the burn of life. Of poignancy and love, pain and struggle and fighting when no one else will. Living.
Muriel Rukeyser said, “The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.”
I tend to agree.