Writing is a crazy lonely road. I’ve heard 97% of writers never finish their book. And of the small group who complete a novel an even smaller percent will ever see it published.
Impossible numbers yet so many of us bound after our goals only to catch a glimpse as they disappear around the corner. Anyone who has dedicated time to art, no matter the form, is driven and can’t stop. For me the drive comes from the dreams.
At night I travel. Color surrounds me, scents fill my nose, sound caresses my ears, and that line between dream and reality blurs and becomes tangible.
The other night I awoke in a sweat. I found myself standing in soft white sand. My eyes squinted against the sun while I counted hundreds of soldiers disembarking from wooden ships. They were my army, they listened to me, and tomorrow they would follow me over the mountain to wipe out an enemy. I mounted my horse and rode into an underground temple; the sacred place I used to spy on the King I would slay.
I breathed easy in the cool quiet interior. No one ventured here for fear of the spirits said to inhabit the pool at the heart of the temple. Shafts of sunlight made the blue water glow but I kept my gaze on the thick columns that surrounded the cavern.
As I neared an exit I glimpsed the silhouette of a horse and rider. My heart leapt in alarm. I turned my horse around and dug my heels into his sides to urge him faster. His hooves pounded the wet sand and his sides heaved. When we reached the edge of the water a searing pain sliced across my side and a spear stabbed the ground before us.
Being transported to a different time and place and seeing life through someone else’s eyes is why we read books. And I keep writing because I can’t stop dreaming and living these experiences. Each scene I enter comes with a purpose and emotions and I want to be able to share that.
So even when becoming a published author seems as elusive as following that waistcoat-wearing, pocket-watch obsessed bunny, I continue on. Besides, the tea is good and I’ve plenty of fellow mad hatters to keep me company. I may as well keep dreaming and writing.
Impossible numbers yet so many of us bound after our goals only to catch a glimpse as they disappear around the corner. Anyone who has dedicated time to art, no matter the form, is driven and can’t stop. For me the drive comes from the dreams.
At night I travel. Color surrounds me, scents fill my nose, sound caresses my ears, and that line between dream and reality blurs and becomes tangible.
The other night I awoke in a sweat. I found myself standing in soft white sand. My eyes squinted against the sun while I counted hundreds of soldiers disembarking from wooden ships. They were my army, they listened to me, and tomorrow they would follow me over the mountain to wipe out an enemy. I mounted my horse and rode into an underground temple; the sacred place I used to spy on the King I would slay.
I breathed easy in the cool quiet interior. No one ventured here for fear of the spirits said to inhabit the pool at the heart of the temple. Shafts of sunlight made the blue water glow but I kept my gaze on the thick columns that surrounded the cavern.
As I neared an exit I glimpsed the silhouette of a horse and rider. My heart leapt in alarm. I turned my horse around and dug my heels into his sides to urge him faster. His hooves pounded the wet sand and his sides heaved. When we reached the edge of the water a searing pain sliced across my side and a spear stabbed the ground before us.
Being transported to a different time and place and seeing life through someone else’s eyes is why we read books. And I keep writing because I can’t stop dreaming and living these experiences. Each scene I enter comes with a purpose and emotions and I want to be able to share that.
So even when becoming a published author seems as elusive as following that waistcoat-wearing, pocket-watch obsessed bunny, I continue on. Besides, the tea is good and I’ve plenty of fellow mad hatters to keep me company. I may as well keep dreaming and writing.
RSS Feed