It’s always strange to me when I finish a great book and
realize that the story exists to others as much as it does to me. The
characters that I have spent weeks—or more likely days—coming to know and love,
are known and loved by a vast world of people. It feels a little like a
betrayal, to be honest. I remember a similar feeling when I was thirteen and I
discovered The Matrix. I watched it
once and became enthralled by the world, the characters, and Keanu Reeves. I
made my mom re-rent it from Blockbuster (these were the days before Netflix)
and I watched it repeatedly for days. Then came a day at school when I
overheard some classmates talking about the movie, and, as silly as it may
sound, I felt a little protective.
Next I discovered Pink Floyd, and realized
that not only were there others who loved the music, but I was several decades
behind them in my experience of it. It still felt like it was mine. The lyrics
and the music were written and composed for me, even though I was late in the
game.
For Christmas I bought myself Ken Follett’s newest book, Winter of the World. He has become my
favorite current living author. I fell in love with his writing through the world he
created for Pillars of the Earth,
then subsequently World Without End.
Now this newest novel is the second book in his century trilogy. While I can’t
say that I loved it in the same way as the first, I loved it nonetheless. As
you have undoubtedly discovered, I am a complete nerd when it comes to books.
As I read this new book I found myself actually angry with the author at two
different points, because of the grief I felt for the characters, and it
occurred to me that this is what the creative process is about. Creating
something that is so real, so genuine, and so moving that it has a tangible
effect on the ones who experience it.
I have spent so much time trying to write myself into a certain
category within a certain world to reach a certain group
of people, that I have lost some of the true passion I have for writing. I have
dreamed, for so many years, of being a writer, and using words to capture a
person’s mind and win their heart in the process. I have dreamed of writing my
own Atlas Shrugged, my own Lord of the Rings, my own great novel,
and yet somewhere along the line I settled for a spot in the “good enough”
seats. Now I’m asking myself, as I toil over every word of the novel I am
trying to create, why write something if your only aspiration is to be good
enough to get read? Why write something if your goal is not to strike a chord
in the heart of the reader, so deep that they will begin a love affair with the
work?
I just want to write my heart. By endeavoring to do so I
must first accept two things. One, the potential of having my heart completely disregarded.
And two, the inevitable rejection. I’m not sure what’s worse, to be ignored or
to be hated. It’s a toss up.
But it’s a necessary risk. To produce something real, and
something great, I’ll have to stick my neck out. Because no one will ever spend
days or weeks immersed in a story that is just “good enough”, and no one will
ever come away from that story feeling like they have lived through the pages.
No one will say, it is mine.
I don’t know what I’m doing here, or what 2013 will bring to
this blog. I have a story to write, and the closest thing I have to a new year’s
resolution is to write that story, and to write it well.
Posts
I know just what you mean, feeling possessive of a precious discovery. The world Ken Follett wrote about in Pillars of the Earth lives and breathes so vividly I read it 6 times. Those characters are MY friends, mentors, and enemies. Sharing them is difficult, especially if other people don't seem to "get" it the way I do. Music, Supertramp's Crime of the Century album; Movies, for me, The Big Chill, can be so personal to your inner dialogue that it does almost feel like a betrayal to have to share them with the larger world. It's risky. Will people like what I like? Will they hate it? Will they laugh, derisively? Even worse, will they be indifferent? THAT fear makes the sharing harder. It is the fear you overcome with every post you make. To write from your heart is also risky; for all the same reasons. Some people write with the goal to be published. That's certainly not hard to do, these days. Most people who write do so because they must. Writing is as much a part of them as breathing and fills their heart as air fills their lungs. I have only just discovered your corner of the blogosphere (through Rachel's blog) but I think you are someone who MUST write. You have the keen insight of someone with something to say and proficiency with the editor's scalpel to keep it lean and on track. I'll look forward to your novel.
ReplyDeleteMichael