There's this strange storm when creating characters and writing them to life. Spending time with them on the page for hours on end and then realizing that soon, you will introduce them to the great big world.
Sometimes, after a good writing session, I feel this overwhelming burst within me. A sudden splash of joy at the work that I am doing. It's almost suffocating to think I've been given the chance to write stories. I am amazed by the dream come true...and the immense delight in spilling my heart into a page.
But then...as I continue, the splash is a memory and the once rippled surface of my over-joyed heart becomes a stagnant pool. My heart pulls away from the story and my eyes look around and my ears wash in quiet.
Writing is a lonely pursuit when our characters aren't enough company.
Is there anything more tormenting than the calling to create? I am in constant flux between the joy and the heartache of my task.
I know it will only increase as I read reviews--good, bad, ugly. The polarized emotion will only swell as I close one book and start the next.
But the thing is, there is nothing else I'd rather be doing.
And I think, that's the trap. The desire for story is impassioned by the joy of creating even amidst the loneliness of writing.
Do you spend time creating, only to crave community by the end of it?