Words: A love story

I haven’t met very many books that I didn’t like. In fact, I can probably count them on one hand. I’m not sure if that makes me a book slut (non-discriminating, easy to please) or if I have low standards.

Well, actually, I think it’s just that I can appreciate the effort of the written word. The words were someone’s labor of love. It’s interesting to me that there continues to be endless combinations of words that weave unique tales.

The storylines could be similar, but never exactly the same. The words mingle together differently. They speak from different points of view. Just as each person’s life experience is unique, so is his or her method of storytelling.

I’ve mentioned before that I started writing my own novel. It’s at a stand-still right now. I’m not sure why. I have the whole plot in my head (and some written down) but I am having trouble getting the individual words to concoct the story the way it’s written in my mind.

I wonder if it has something to do with the seasons. Here in Minnesota, the winter weather gets old and has worn out its welcome long before it finally leaves us. When spring is finally peeking her head through the brown, dormant grass I feel energized. That is when I write most frequently and with the most ease.

Well, then and when I’m laying in bed trying to go to sleep. The words form especially well if I don’t have a pen or paper anywhere nearby . . . or if it’s three in the morning.

At those times when the words are flowing freely, I start to feel like a real writer. I feel like I’ve written something worth reading. I feel like I could write that novel, it could get published and people would actually pay money to read it.

Then I read what others have written, whether it be a book, magazine article or a blog post, and I wonder why I think I could possibly compete.

Yes, I know that if you don’t try you won’t accomplish anything. Putting yourself out there involves taking a risk. You will have many rejections before you gain acceptance. (Is that really always the case?)

Writing is personal. I’m actually a very private, mostly shy person. (Seems like many “writers” are.) But I find I can express myself easily through the written word. If I couldn’t write, somewhere, I wouldn’t be me. But I’m finding that if no one reads what I’ve written it doesn’t hold the same benefit for me. Personal journals are great, but they don’t give me the feedback that I crave.

I want other people to read my words.

There. I said it.

I want people to read my words and take away the same pleasure that I got last night when I almost finished reading A Thousand Splendid Suns. I want people to read my words and marvel at the way I’ve blended them into a symphony; an opus.

I want my spring to come early this year.