A former teenage author turned twenty and her stabs at writing life and living to write.

Friday, July 23, 2010

Inspiration, Mutilation, Irritation

Everyone knows inspiration. We've all experienced it. We've had a thought, seen an action, took a journey that gave us exactly what we needed... enlightenment. For me, it was a stupid bedtime story I had been telling my niece and nephew at the time. For a few minutes each night, I created my own world, my own reality. And as I began to personalize my character, I realized I had drawn a mirror of myself. 

Months, even over a year passed before I made anything from it. Lying in a hospital bed, I began to write a story, one that was intended to fill a page... maybe two. Nearly four years later, I have finished a 105,000 worded fantasy novel with 15,000 words into the sequel. I was inspired. Whether for the best or not, I was drawn to write a story that honestly changed my life. 

Here's where the mutilation takes a role. So often we (including most predominantly myself) take the inspiration we're given and destroy it in the way we present it. We try to exactly duplicate what our hearts feel, the way we experience things of meaning. We try to share it with others, and when they can't understand we seem to fail. I want people to read my book, tell me what they think, but no matter how hard I try, no one will be able to share my experience in writing it. It was mine and mine alone. I can bring people into the worlds that I create, but they may never feel at home there like I do. 

Okay, so you officially think I'm crazy. Well, before you call out the loony squad, hear this. Maybe when inspiration comes, inspiration that is meant for only ourselves, that is impossible to share (perhaps even inappropriate to share), maybe we are given these types of information to share it with someone else. And who better to listen to our thoughts, understand the strings in our heads than our Father? Who better to give us insight, to prepare us for peak moments of thought, actual seconds in time where the pieces fit together?

I know I started talking about my book and ended with divine inspiration. But maybe that's what my book is. Not for anyone else, but for me. Maybe giving me the ability to write this book was my own kind of inspiration? I already know a lot of my own personal answers can be found in its pages, things I didn't even mean to write in. Yes, it's quite possible that my book will never become a bestseller, never get even so much as an interested agent. Maybe that's okay. Maybe the reason I wrote this book was not to share it with others, let people in to the characters I love, the fictional places I've visited. Maybe there's another plan in mind. And... well, who am I to put my plan over His? 

PS... Note that I'm saying maybe. I do not pretend to know His plan either so... agent, publisher, if you're out there and thinking that my book may be freaking fantastic... comment below!! 

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