So I decided to be a writer of sorts. Very late in the game.
I write now in part because it makes me happier that I do.
And hopefully the reader would be too…when I get my better work out there.
And though I’m not a successful person, I can’t quite say I’m pretending. (And so unsuccessful I’ve nary (never) the money to donate so Cristian can have his own computer.)
Where I fail to create in real life I may on the page.
Being unable to grow (’cause of my isolating environ) doesn’t stop me from writing about growing characters.
Being unable to have children (’cause no one lets me into their heart…and then some) doesn’t stop me from writing about a couple who have one.
Of course it’s very difficult making it realistic. But I’ve always been an observer, picking up on things. I can plot and spot errors. (Documentaries help too.)
I actually don’t want to follow in the footsteps of other writers, making obvious fiction. I read The Fault in Our Stars in June; boy is that—despite the technical realities—unreal. Teenagers that sound like John Green. (It’s still a good book, though—deserving of its high popularity, even now.)
I want to make something that the reader thinks is real so I can get them to feel something…to be involved and welcome, and to dream too.
Ultimately, I write because I dream.
The hope in my dreams is often so much stronger.
I am there, to a degree, more free. And when it benefits, all the better.
I can aim for a wonderful perspective.
Too often it’s been a “dull, gray world,” loaded with denial, menial work and poorly executed ethics.
But our dreams always open opportunity. They push ourselves to conquer our fears and…well, hope. It helps us in writing our own story, whether or not we acquire the skill(s) to put it on the page.
I know one of my dreams helped me in school— er, summer school, that a story I wrote based entirely on a dream I had. A hand sticking up in the middle of the floor. (Yes, strange.)
So go ahead. Jot your virtual experiences down. You’ll find that they’ve aided you in some way. After all they are inspired by actual events. (And “inspired by actual events,” like the movies, inevitably makes them ‘fiction.’ The Quiet Ones is not a great movie.)