‘Why don’t you just write a book?’ They’ll ask me, when they find out I blog. And like writing. And write, a lot.
‘Well, Wanda. You go for a ten minute run every Monday. Why don’t you just go run a marathon eh? No? Right.’ I’ll reply.
‘And your kid is taking swimming lessons, isn’t he? When’s he due for the Olympics?‘
(Although…I won’t actually reply reply obviously. I’ll do it in my head 3 hours later, because I never think of these witty replies on the spot. But I would, if I’d think of them sooner!)
Maybe I find the question so excruciatingly painful because I can’t. Write a book, that is. Not that I haven’t tried. Not that I wouldn’t want to. It’s just that I can’t. Not a good one, anyway. Not anything anyone would want to read.
It’s the same thing with hitting homeruns in a softball match. ‘Why’d you hit it straight to the third baseman?‘ they’ll ask after I get back to the bench after a fucked up hit. And I just wanna facepalm my face and go ‘Gee. I dunno. I thought that would be THE way to get to run a homerun lap. Isn’t that how it works?‘
The thing about writing books though:
It’s hard as balls.
Have you ever noticed how many pages those bastards have?
It’s a lot. Like. At least a 160 to 200 of ’em if you’re doing a halfway decent job.
And do you know how much story you can fit into a 160 pages?
It’s a lot. Like. A full-blown epic love-quest with additional side-missions and everything.
They say that when you write – you have to write from the heart. Stay close to yourself. Find your voice and stick with it. That doesn’t just go for blogging, but for books as well. And as a big fan of the Young Adult Fantasy genre….that means I’m fucked. Because those books I’d want to write contain beautifully strong heroines. Strangely beautiful men with a lot of complicated issues and the polar opposite badboy persona that always has the girl twisted up into a complex love triangle. And in these books – love always wins out.
I got a tattoo when I was 18. It says ‘Amor omnia vincit‘ as the uncureable romantic that I thought I was back then. Love conquers all in Latin. It’s bannered over a rose wrapped around a dagger to symbolize the love winning out over the battle. And it’s complete and utter bullshit. These days I know that love, however beautiful, powerful and world-changingly amazing…doesn’t always conquer everything. Sometimes, however much you’ll want to, love isn’t enough. And though it still makes for a tattoo I don’t regret, it’s no longer a truth I believe in, but a reminder of how people can change.
So when I start to write a book – it’ll come to the point that you start building up a character (which, in and of itself is something I have no passion for) that the reader will love. That they will get a t-shirt for that screams TEAM EDWARD and that they will fight to see protected throughout that book. A character they can connect with. Grow to love. Get attached to.
But I cannot write about the personalities that would deserve this type of passionate response. Or about the love that would intertwine the lives of my characters throughout the book. Because I don’t know it. I don’t recognize it. I can’t describe it. I can write storylines and intriges. Fantastical creatures and amazingly complex scenic descriptions. But I can’t bring a character to life, because I, as a person myself, fall flat in this category. I have no interest in the inner workings of people and they ways to portray them and thus….cannot write a book.
But hey. You can’t run a marathon either. And I’m pretty sure none of your kids are going to be Olympic swimmers. Plus, writing a blog has a whole lot more interaction than putting a book out into the world. So I’m good where I am. Bothering you people with the goings-on in my brain.