Someone once described the life of a writer to me as being an opportunity to play god in a world of your choosing. That professor had a very profound impact on me simply because he wasn’t afraid to explore the art of the story as if it were a map leading to some kind of hidden treasure. What is this treasure? A theme, perhaps, or maybe just the gratification of having created something from nothing. Anyone who has tried their hand at creation knows that this is very hard to do, but there’s this feeling that hits you hard at the end when it is all said and done. For some people it is relief, others may see it for what it is: something new which has not yet found its place in the world.
The question is not how we create, no I think for the most part creating comes fairly naturally to artists, but what to do with the finished product once it has been given life. Is a painting meant to be covered and placed in a box?
Now come the hopes which follow.
A writer is not simply a writer. They are people who want to tell you something and that something, whatever it may be, is what they want to remember. In a world that we create, the decisions of our characters are not their own but ours. Writing might be playing god, but it is also exploring what it means to be human as well. You can learn a lot about someone by their writing.
A reader is someone searching for ideas to remember.
We take away what we deem is important and pass by what we perceive is not. As I sit here going through old files and projects on hold, I wonder about my creations and if there is a shelf somewhere for them to sit on and be remembered.
Without meaning to, artists create not paintings, books, or music, but legacies. We are beings who step in and out of our own worlds then document what it was like on the other side.
It all starts with an audience of one.
I like that.
I really do.