As a writer, I try to think of myself as an artist sitting in front of an easel.
My brush is my keyboard; my canvas, a blank page; and my pallet of colors are the words I will use to paint a picture for the reader.
I write a descriptive word here; an adjective there, creating a background on which to paint my subject.
The words flowing onto my canvas like perfectly mixed hues; of just the right tone; to gently lead the reader into my imagination’s landscape, and then I paint characters; carefully brushed in to do my bidding.With words I give life to them. They breathe; they laugh and love; their emotions scripted to draw you close to them.
They are my children; to be nurtured until they stand on their own and tell me where they wish to go; what they want to say. Its then that I know I have done as I set forth to do. They are real to the reader; because they are real to me.
You are now inside my painting; a part of it; living, becoming the character until it is finished.
Will you win the heart of the one you desire; or will she jilt you for another? Does Emily overcome the tradgedy or does she kill herself?
You will not know until I know. It is I who write the final scene. Perhaps I will add a twist; or leave you hanging at the end; for a sequel to answer your unanswered questions.
It is mine to decide; I am the painter of the artwork; the writer of the words that ink the pages; allowing you to wander through my world; to meet those who dwell in it.
If I am to become a true artist; I must leave you wanting more. If not, then I have no purpose to continue writing. I am the master of my words; but it is the reader who is my bane of existence.
If no eyes gaze upon the pages; then my toil has been for nothing. I have failed as an artist to hold your attention; my colors wrongly chosen; my brush strokes inept; perhaps my imagination not strong enough to capture and sustain my created world; so that you might want to stay and explore it.
Always fraught with doubt; we writer’s tend to be. So fragile is our ego; that we might be rejected and denied some tiny morsel of immortality. It is the reason we write you know; to leave a part of ourselves behind for posterity to ponder at our works of fantasy and fiction. Impart on you some bit of ourselves that remains embedded in your mind; long after the book is closed. It is a guarded secret and we would deny it should we be asked why we write.
My work thus far is not memorable; not worthy of sitting beside the literary classics of past generations; but I continue to strive towards that rank of authors; and until or if I get there; I will write; because that is what I do when a blank canvas sits before me.