Probably one of my favorite things to do when it’s raining is to curl up on the sofa with a fuzzy blanket, my puppy, and a new book.
Books. When you ruffle the pages, imagination springs to life.
Books are magical. How does a substance, made of paper and binding, carry worlds inside of it?
That’s what they do. That’s what they are.
Books are worlds waiting to be discovered and we are the fortunate beings chosen to open up the pages and step into them. We were made to explore those worlds that affectionate authors built for us.
Knowing how amazing and magical that experience can be, I’ve always dreamed of being an author who creates a world for someone else. I want my readers to open the pages and be immersed in the words I wrote, the world I created.
People write books for many, many different reasons. Some write for material gain: money, fame, accomplishment. Others write for the joy of it, the experience.
What kind of author are you?
Are you merely interested in how much you can sell a book for, or are you focusing on your readers and the kind of world you will immerse them in?
When you write, you have to be so careful. You have to be cautious of the type of world you create, and how you create that world. Because magical worlds are so fragile. They can shatter at any second. Without a meticulous and gentle creator, that fairy land could be destroyed by one small word.
Oh, I wish I was a book. Books are so lucky. They get to be vessels of amazing things, they are privileged to carry around the worlds that people cry over, laugh over, sweat over.
If only I was a book and not an author.
I would be happy.
(Still, being an author is pretty cool)
Enjoy your little treasures,