Thursday, September 3, 2015

All I can ask for.

I've always found writing down on paper the story I've already thought of in my head to be anti-climactic. I want to just wave my hand and have it done already.

I've written five new chapters for Blood of the Succubus.  All of them have come, dare I say it, easy.  I already knew what I wanted them to do.  There are some surprising details and twists while I write, but mostly, you know, they are simply coloring within the lines.

The story exists in my head (and it exists in some extra dimension somewhere -- which is where I'm pulling it from in the first place.)

If writing is pure, then thinking of the story is even purer.  But just as writing the story is different from getting people to read the story, thinking of the story doesn't do me any good unless it is written down.

I know this seems obvious, but the more I write the more I realize that writing has nothing to do with what happens afterwards.

Writing the book is its own thing.  It is the book and nothing but the book.

Really hammering this home is the fact that I'm sitting on complete books. That experience is complete. The story is complete.

But it might as well be a black hole as far as meaning anything, because even though I had the experience of writing it, and even though it exists -- no one will ever know unless I can find a way to get it out where people can find it.

The Internet has changed the equation.  At least now I know if I write a book I can put it someplace where the possibility exists that someone will read it.

The possibility...

I think that is all I can ask for.

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