Fuckwittery ✯ Asskickery



✯Geeks on Ink✯


As a reader myself, I understand that we can get so wrapped up and involved with characters and story lines that we find ourselves cheering, booing, crying, dreaming, yelling, and feeling as if we know these characters on the pages personally. A good writer can make us feel as if each character is a part of our lives, or we're a part of theirs, and when the last page is turned we want more, we need more, we demand more!

For a writer, these characters are a part of us. We bleed for them, have many sleepless nights because of them, and at every page break we find ourselves questioning if this is what is best for them.

I had only gotten emotional writing two books: Undiluted Minds, and The Forgotten City of the Lotus Blossom. Knowing how each would inevitably end two chapters in didn't begin to prepare me for the gut-wrenching endings. I had tried though, and it was until after the words were down that I cried and had to walk away...

That is until last night.

The original story line in the Prophecy Saga was an elementary attempt at writing (it was my first) and it lacked depth which I've fixed. Some don't care for the new direction of the story, or the additional layers to the characters, or how it deviates from the original so drastically. I felt that myself a time or two because Tynan and Knox were my first. They were my first story, my first attempt at writing, my first...they allowed me to dip my toes in the creative pond and the ripples that resulted have changed my life and that of my husband and boys for the better, I hope.

Being a passionate person, defensive of her stories and characters, treating them as if they were my babies, I keep each close to my heart and share them selflessly, if I may be so bold and haughty to say it in such a way.

Last night, I didn't realize that the end approached so quickly in Revelation, it blindsided me honestly. And as I wrote the final paragraphs the writer because the reader and I found myself sobbing uncontrollably as I struggled to get the words on paper. Through tear flooded eyes and a runny nose, struggling to catch my breath as it rushed out of my swollen lips, my hands violently shook as they moved over the keyboard.

I hadn't realized how invested I had become with my original characters again, and how it'd feel when the words came on their own accord, without my control, and they turned the story in a completely different direction.

It has terrified me.

Today I sit here looking at my computer, Word Doc opened, the page blank, and I can't force myself to blemish it with words. It mockingly looks at me, waiting, longing for my words to fill it, and there are so very many words to put on it, to fill it with, but they elude me...