In the last week or so I've received two really significant reviews on two separate books. The reviewers may or may not know just how much their words have stayed with me and touched my heart, but they have. And it's not because they couldn't stop gushing about how awesome my writing is (in fact, one reviewer initially hated the book and nearly quit halfway through) it's because they saw beyond the stories to the truths I had hidden within. Or, had hoped I had hidden within.
Most days I don't think my life has been all that remarkable. Other times, I take stock of all that I've experienced and wonder how I've crammed it all into thirty-four years...and how I'm still standing. That last part is probably silly. I can't always tell. I have a tendency to be a tad on the dramatic side. Of course, I'm also all about deny and sweep that shit under the rug, so who the hell knows where I really stand on the scale of life and trauma and the ultimate happy ever after.
But, I digress.
Sort of.
My goal is always to write stories to entertain. Generally, I don't set out to send some sort of a message. I'm not in it to shed light on deep dark secrets of the heart and soul. I just want to write about characters people will enjoy and stories that will hold their interest from page one to page 'the end'.
That's my goal.
It's not my reason.
My reason for writing is selfish. Super selfish. Beyond selfish.
I write for myself. Always have. I write for healing. For release. For fun. But mostly, I write for some sense of control. When life runs off its fucking rails, I get on the computer and pound the shit out of those keys until I feel as though I've put it back on track.
I write to lie to myself.
So, when I read those reviews...they stay with me. Because I may write to lie to myself...but I always strive to tell the truth while I do it. Even if it's not pretty. Or likable. Or even understood. And somehow, in those moments when the truth is seen...and acknowledged...it makes the lies that much easier to bear.
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