Here we are. Wednesday, May 15, 9:11 PM. I’m sitting in front of my Mac Book screen, staring at what is my impending future. It’s not just an email with an attachment. It’s a dream come true, with a book that contains my entire life.
I am an author. And my debut novel, my everything,is complete.
My assistant that I’ve been working with for some time now presented me with the most beautiful formatted book, ready to taste the true physical pages of a paper back.
Seven-hundred-and two pages.
I laughed. I cried. I couldn’t believe that this was one of the last final steps. The last leg of this winding emotional road. The feeling was as magical as I’d always daydreamed it would be.
And then, as I’m scrolling through elegant italics and scrolly drop-caps, I feel so far from where I started. It feels like the beginning… whenever that really had been… was so far away from the person I’d become. The writer that I grew into. And there, I got choked up in thinking that they – my characters – have come just as far.
As I’d been patiently crossing off calendar days in waiting for this dream-come-true email, my characters and I’d plunged into a sequel. Eleven chapters in, and I had to stand back and just compare books. The writing style didn’t change, no, that’s not what had me smiling in awe; My writing voice remained the same. It was the fact that everyone had journeyed so far, and no one stood as the same person.
Kind of like me.
Yesterday I had to flip through my novel’s unformatted document to find a specific paragraph. It was way back in innocent chapter two. Way back to the beginning of my main character’s simple life. This boy, this… (how should I say this without offending Drystan…?) … this inner voice that lives in my head, has become more real in the past nine months than in any previous time during my writing journey.
So as I sat there in front my Mac Book, staring past the words that were our life, I fell into the thought of: Who knew that imaginary friends could shape you into what you are now?
Who knew that the people who live inside your head would become the dearest things to you besides your own immediate family?
I’m not crazy. I’m what they call a maladaptive daydreamer. No, I don’t pace my floors with mumbled incoherencies of inner-self conversations. No, I don’t lie on my bed for hours with ear pods, fantasizing over the same specific scene a specific song gives me. (Some triggering symptoms associated with other MD’s) But I will admit that I am distracted from real life. I do have extremely vivid daydreams with my characters, plot settings, and other extreme details. But, I am also a writer. What do you expect?
And so here we are. Thursday, May 16, 12:48 PM. I’m again in front of my Mac Book, trying to put the magic I felt last night into words. Trying to paint color through black and white Athelas in font size 12. Trying to tell you that there is a whole other functioning world inside me, and that it’s coming in the form of a book very, very, soon.
Because I’m a writer.