Writing is hard.
Okay, allow me to expand on my initial words.
Writing fiction capable of holding a reader in the story until she, or he, reaches THE END is damn difficult.
Truth time. How many books have you read in the past ten days? Twenty days? Month? I don’t mean perused, but held on until the last page? Me? One. (And, no, it wasn’t my book. I don’t like to read my books, which has nothing to do with my stories. It’s more of a perfectionist thing. “Why did I end that sentence with a dreaded ‘ly’ word?”)
Sorry. I digressed. I’ve been confined to a recliner chair for the past two weeks–surgeon’s orders. (http://bit.ly/2iK76pU)
In my banishment I’ve written, played Hearthstone, watched movies (one thumb up for LaLa Land and two thumbs and all my toes up for Collateral Beauty), and read.
At least, I tried to read. Why, you ask? (You should be asking that.) They sucked. The characters were as transparent as ghosts and the story lines boring as (I’ll quote my son’s favorite adjective) fuck.
One book’s premise claimed the story was a paranormal romance. The prologue introduced me to the spectral hero as he raped the handcuffed and gagged living heroine. With his talons!!!!! Hmmm, that’s not romance. That’s erotica. Graphic, bloody, degrading erotica. And I blame you, E.L. James, for opening that Pandora’s box.
Three other books, although new releases with a gazillion years on the New York Times’ bestseller list, were yawn-fests. I didn’t care if the characters fell off the now flat earth. In fact, I wanted to be the one to push them.
I eventually found a book to read. One from my bookshelf. It held my interest and I fell in love with the characters all over again. Ray Bradbury, thank you.
“It was the face of spring, it was the face of summer, it was the warmness of clover breath. Pomegranate glowed in her lips, and the noon sky in her eyes. To touch her face was that always new experience of opening your window one December morning, early, and putting out your hand to the first white cool powdering of snow that had come, silently, with no announcement, in the night. And all of this, this breath-warmness and plum-tenderness was held forever in one miracle of photographic is chemistry which no clock winds could blow upon to change one hour or one second; this fine first cool white snow would never melt, but live a thousand summers.” Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury
Okay, fellow writers, I challenge you to write. I mean truly write. Dig deep into your characters. Find their buttons. Weave worlds were magic happens. Take your readers to places their hearts, and souls, long, or fear, to visit. Write, damn it. You too, E.L.
And I promise to do the same.
Blessed be :}