I’ve forsaken my blog. I haven’t meant to mind you, it all began with the best of intentions – but then of course we all know what the road to hell is paved with.
I have been writing though. Diligently pounding out a story; day after day, chapter after chapter, leaving me a little on the edge of crazy. I never anticipated that writing fiction would be like this. It’s a contradictory sort of thing; it comes so easy in a difficult sort of way. I find myself consumed with my characters and completely immersed in the landscape of my imagination. I am in love with the story but fear my ability to tell it… to write it. One sentence at a time, one paragraph, one page at a time providing the thought provoking ebb and flow of plot. Some days reality exists only in my subconscious eking it’s way into the daylight through the keys on my keyboard, slowly at first and then fervently as my fingers try to keep up with my thoughts. Other days I walk by my notes and laptop sitting quietly unopened, waiting for me. I circle it like a vulture and pace back and forth in front of it but never actually turn it on.
I am close to the end now, only a few chapters left before the first draft of the manuscript is ready for editing. My protagonist has been a steady and loyal friend these past few months, almost to the exclusion of all others. It has been a strange experience to research and write this novel, but I have loved every minute of it and all nagging questions of whether my life is to write have been answered ten-fold.
I do ask myself sometimes… “what if no-one ever reads it?” and I usually respond to myself in the same way; with a shrug of my shoulders, a nod of my head and the immediate declaration that… ”I’ve done this for me.”
This is for me.