I’ve always been a reader.
Fiction, biography, historical, futuristic, short, long. There isn’t a genre I haven’t at least brushed shoulders with in my 23 years of book reading.
My favorite books are those in which you begin to know people. The characters develop, unfold, and reveal their hearts to you, and in return you love them, hate them, cheer them on, and wish for their quick demise.
Sometimes, if I’m trapped without a book, I make up my own characters. Just brief sketches, of course, and it all stays in my mind. But I wonder what it would be like to put my characters down on to paper. To give them life – not to breath air themselves, but to inhabit the minds and hearts of the people who pick them up and embrace who they are, even if only on brittle paper.
And I wonder…could I write a book? For years I’ve wondered, really, but there is always a reason not to. Time. Money. The quite plausible reminder that honestly, no one might read the darn thing.
If no one reads your writing, are you a writer?
How much outside validation – if any – does one require to be a “real” writer?
Everyone has their answer to those questions.
For me, to be a writer means to give heart and soul to a character, an idea, a passion – to take something unseen, abstract, and make it real to readers. One reader. One million readers.
To me, it doesn’t matter really.
So I’ll write.