It’s suddenly become ridiculously difficult for me to actually put words down on paper. I keep second guessing myself, as though each word that I type (or don’t type) is crucially important. It’s become so ridiculous that writing this first post has now taken three days.
This, ladies and gentleman, is what a post looks like with a head start.Yikes. This does NOT bode well for the future.
So I’ve decided to start a blog. All the cool kids have one, so I thought I’d join the party. It’s what real writers do, isn’t it? They write and they blog, and they blog about writing. Sometimes they even write about blogging, but baby steps, people. I’m new at this.
I’ve always wanted to be a writer.No, scratch that.
I’ve always wanted to be an author.
There. That’s better.
Because there is a difference, isn’t there? Between a writer and an author? I think there is. I’ve always been a writer. I’ve been writing stories since I could hold a pencil, and will be writing stories until the day my Twitter-induced RSI claims the last of my gnarled, arthritic fingers. But writing stories doesn’t make you an author. At least, not in my head. No, there’s something magical in the space between being a writer and being an author. Something intangible that only a select few will ever experience. I’m not talking about signing with an agent, being published or the first time you see your book in a bookstore (or on Kindle, as the future goes). Those things, while definite steps towards becoming the elusive author, are not the end point for me. They are wonderful and amazing steps, of course, and I hope that one day I can create a post entitled ‘NOVEL FABULOUS HAS BEEN PUBLISHED!’ (Side note: ‘Novel Fabulous’ is a fabulous title, don’t you think??), but I want more than that. I need more than that.
To me, being an author means you can really connect with your audience. You can make them feel something. Believe something. You can make them forget the rest of the world and just live on the page in the world you created with the characters you brought to life. I don’t know about you, but not all published books do that for me. Sometimes you can only suspend your disbelief so far before the rope starts to fray and it all comes crashing down.
Now don’t get me wrong; if I ever get as far as being a published writer, I will be anti-dancing* so hard that I will probably throw my back out. I’m under no illusions about how hard that’s going to be, and how fierce the competition is out there. There are a lot of exceptional writers in the world, both published and unpublished. I know that. But I can’t help but…want.
I want so much.
I want to write the kind of book that people read by flashlight under the covers at 3am because they can’t put it down (don’t ask me why they can’t just use a lamp; it kills the illusion!)
I want to write something that allows people securely suspend their disbelief so high that they could tightrope across the Grand Canyon without being afraid to fall.
I want to create a world so vivid and so beautiful that people long for it to be real. I want to breathe life into characters who are desperately loved or intensely hated.
I want passion.
I want to write a story that transports people into another time and another place where the only thing that matters to them are the words on the page. I want people to want the world I created. I want them to feel something. Believe something.
Is that egotistical? Maybe. But to me, that’s what an author is capable of doing.
And I want to be an author.
*Refers to dancing without caring about specific moves or how insane you look. Just moving your body to the music with complete abandon. Only looks good when filmed at 1000 frames per second, in case you were wondering...
TITLE LYRICS: ‘The Kill’ By Thirty Seconds To Mars