What it feels like to write a book
I think there is too many and also not enough words to describe what it is like. These words- the conglomeration of thoughts and feelings and ideas- let loose like small fish into an open ocean to be compared with fish that are easily 100x the size you are and immediately you are all categorized into the same pool: Author
Relief is the first thing, however, that washes through you. You read your story five, six, seven, twenty, how many? times and still found mistakes. You lived in the heads of your characters far too long, comparing them to your real life from having been living in both worlds equally. But now there is time. Precious, undivided, un-filled time. The word itself becomes its own separate entity once you hit the shelves.
But now you look at a library and you see more than food for your hungry eyes. Now it is an art form so naked that you can feel yourself stripping as you walk up those concrete stairs and stand next to the other authors that are doing the same thing, wondering if they’ll get recognized, hoping they won’t, hoping they will, and questioning just how good they look in their natural form in comparison. You see the hours and the frustration and the pride, and more than that you feel it. And then you compare your book to others and suddenly you are as self conscious as a a teenager just trying to figure out who they are: Mine isn’t as thick as that one, that cover looks amazing where can I find that artist? Mine is definitely thicker than that one, should I even be criticizing another author’s book?
After it is all said and done, though, there is lust stinging in your chest, waiting for you to fulfill your new addiction but afraid that there might be a problem. Sitting down in front of the screen again injects the heroin into your veins and the words scribing out in front of you fulfills the high that you missed once you opened your final manuscript for the final time. But then comes restarting of the cycle: starting with the passion of the hunt and ending with a head mounted on the wall that you stare at for hours and hours once more before you end up back in the same library, naked, only this time your back is a little more straight.
So what does it feel like to write a book? It doesn’t. It’s just a fact. I am an author, and I wrote a book.
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