Satisfaction
in a job well done, that is...
A decent
tale, a smart delivery, the right format...and it's off to the world to be read.
Your finished literary masterpiece. Your soul exposed in the written word.
To be
judged, yes, of course, but also to be appreciated, one hopes, the author holding
faith that a stout and strong fantasy bubble floated aloft for the reader that would
not break 'til the words, The End.
It's
really all a writer can hope for...
All the
months, sometimes years, of research and editing, the same being said for
characters endlessly haunting, for pivotal scenes e'er repeating in one's
mind...all that seasoning is a solo endeavour. It has to be. However
disquieting, traumatizing, thought-provoking the work is, the scribe prays for
even a modicum of that human experience to wash over the devourer of her tale,
and that a silent tremor be felt in her reader’s heart, if even for a while.
And then
on to the next...from the figurative rape of Nanking to the romance of the
century.
Writers
must wash their dirty laundry in public.
The
blood, sweat and tear stains from the former work have to be mentally white
washed in order to dish dirt anew. It's an onerous and exhausting task but must
be done in order to write forward, as write forward we writers must.
A silent,
solo struggle.
Yes,
satisfaction is felt from those who enjoyed the work. Writers get to smile and
experience that all-knowing, unspoken communiqué, writer-to-reader, and for a
moment, souls touch—what I believe may be the true quest of an artist. Alas,
the join will break, and the wordsmith must return alone to her cerebral lair. There
is another path to walk, new characters to meet, new obstacles to overcome and
new lessons to be learned.
Thinking,
reliving, digesting, reducing, presenting...hoping for that all-too rare human
touch.
No wonder
I pray for Cocktail Hour...
~~~