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.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 or 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. That is what I do when a blank canvas sits before me.