An updated blog post, based on past witterings and a revisit from a much older, jaded author… enjoy.
Have you ever thought of reading as an art form? After all, each crafted piece of writing depends on the person that reads it; their imagination, their vision, their emotions, their perspective.
Each reader views the words on the page in their own unique way; treasuring the characters, the scenery, the emotions of the book, making them come to life in a way the author could only hope for.
But each of these worlds that are created are secret, sacred, and can never be replicated or shared with outside eyes. That’s what makes it all the more precious – but surely it can’t be art, because it’s only in one mind (at least until a Black Mirror scenario is upon us).
Unless… we’re all art. Every single one of us is our own individual life’s work.
We love to read. We love anything that provokes a reaction in us.
I read purely because I love to read – it takes me away somewhere else and I have had great memories while reading some books.
When I can really get into a book, really lose myself in it, it’s something I find worthwhile. I like to be stimulated in that way, and I especially love things that provoke some sort of reaction in me be it good, bad, emotional or just a good laugh. I love being able to laugh, cry, feel for the characters.
And that’s why it’s so important to me to be able to create that for other people and to know that others are taking something away from my work, that makes it all worthwhile for me.
That is why I write. Along with the dreams that fuel the words that flow from my mind through my fingers and onto the keys, and along with the imagination that drives me forward, that visualises and builds on those dreams.
I write to create my own worlds and to bring together beauty and essence in my characters.
But most of all, I write so that others can lose themselves in my work and if they can take something away from it; be it large or small, that is more than enough for me. I write in the hope that my work will shine through and live in its own way; inside others.
That is why I write. Or, at least, it’s why I used to.
You see, I wrote this many years ago, because I suffered some trauma and lost my will to write whilst I was around 60,000 words through my fourth novel. My entire life changed.
Does it make me sad to go back and read this? Yes, a bit. Do I still have stories in me? Yes, so many.
But whether I go back to writing again, or simply stay a reader; a satisfied partaker of fictional worlds others have created for me – I’ll always enjoy the stories (and in the meantime, I’ll write for fun on here).