The year is ending. The chapter is written. Now I have to prologue the next chapter, write the beginning all over again. State what remains the same, what changes.
My writing changes. It’s always changing but this is a major change. The purpose I write changed. I used to write because I liked it but then publishing my work became really important so I focused on that and the quality of my writing dropped because being someone else is just not happening.
So this post is here to remind all writers out there to ask themselves two questions: why you write and why you live.
For some people, focusing on their goal of published books works because it motivates them to improve. Me? When I focus on publishing, I focus on what other people want me to write, what other people want to read that I forget I’m generalizing. Not everyone wants to read about seducing vampires or lust. Not everyone like good girls and bad boys or bad girls and good boys. Not everyone wants to read about dark powers that can’t be controlled.
Whatever I want to write, someone out there will want to read. I want to write something I’m comfortable reading out, not something from deep inside my brain I know my mother will chase after me with a broomstick.
I write to change my future. I don’t want to replicate life. Okay, I understand why people do that – find the magic in real life – but I personally find that depressing. I like happy endings, maybe with a tinge of realism but not too much. I write not because I want to chronicle the things that happen in my life but to embellish it. What if I chose not to do my homework? What would happen? What if I spoke to the stranger sitting next to me in the library? What would they say?
I write because I know those things won’t happen, that I’d never be brave enough to speak to strangers but it’s a story. My future can change. I write so others can see the things that are missing. When I write about speaking to a stranger in the library, I’m showing others the magic that can spark between two people who don’t know each other. I’m revealing the side of life hardly anyone tried to experience.
I shouldn’t let people influence the way I want to write. Sure, if they’re going to edit my story, they can be ruthless and tell me it’s horrible and in this industry, it’ll happen. But I believe if you write with your editor in mind all the while, your story will mimic your fear of making mistakes, your fear of writing something no one wants to read. Because I’ve done that and I find that when I read those works, they lack the bravery of the writer.
When the writer’s not certain about what they write, why would the reader bother imagining what they are writing?
So why do I write? I write to live the life I cannot have, I write so others can see the things that are missing in their life.
I write to live. I live to write.