When I’m reading (or listening to) a really great book, I sit in wonder of how the author gathered the courage to write this stuff and distributed it to the masses. Such beautiful prose, and it makes me jealous.
They have the balls to take a journey with their characters to transcribe their wonderful journey, while I stay behind, my characters glaring at me for not taking action.
I read a blog post yesterday involving fantasy fiction, and the guest blogger of the post stated (and I’m paraphrasing) it’s not the plot that drives the story, but the characters that do, along with poetic, musical prose. Which is so very true, and an aha moment long overdue.
Proof of this, as an example, would be Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at The End of The Lane. I listened to the story via Audible, and the story was so magical, so riveting, and written so beautifully, that I think about it at least once a day since finishing it. Plan to buy it from Amazon so my sister-in-law can read it and (hopefully) enjoy it as much as I did.
But when I write something, instead of being immersed in the story, I tend to see writing as a chore, I quickly lose interest, and the story suffers. There have been stories (fan fiction, mostly) I’ve written and managed to not only feel good about what was written but get positive feedback on, but I also have two unpublished novels, both unedited rough drafts, out of order, and collecting dust in an external hard drive.
They could have been polished, published stories by now, but I’ve grown accustomed to laziness. I know things will turn around soon, and I’ll gather the courage to go back and edit them, turn them into butterflies.
Okay, I’m trying too hard with that last bit…