You create words and you put them together and you hope they mean something. You hope they sound good together. You hope one word leads to the next and that one sentence leads to the next and that the end result of all these words is something that changes things if only a little. You hope that the reader reads these strings of words and comes out of the experience changed. You hope these words tells the reader something about what it means to be alive.
That’s the hope.
So when Squishy gets published soon, that’s what I hope. I hope I have connected with the reader reading words I’ve put together and that this connection changes the reader in somehow, however slight that change may be.
It’s been a long road. Not as long as my novel (not published, but kind of looking for a publisher) but long, with lots of hard work, lonely moments. I learned things. About myself. About the world. About others. Writing a book is a profound thing, an act of creation that seems completely silly when you stop to think about it. The arrogance of the writer!
No one writes because they want to but because they have to. It’s an itch you have to scratch. Well, I scratched. And that in itself is satisfying. That I managed to publish a book out of that scratch seems like a bonus. Though the real bonus, I think, comes from the connection. From that one reader who comes up to you and says….well, I guess I’ll find out.