It has been 9 days since I last "spoke to the world." Apologies. Sometimes "Time"-- that illusive thing that that teases us with its promises of rest and relaxation -- is stolen away by none other than life. Life steps in the way of Time and fritters it away with such things as "responsibility." Oh that I were irresponsible sometimes! But, alas, I am not.
So, of late, I have been doing other things that prevent me from connecting to the world and updating my goings-on. I am alive, and generally healthy. Although, I do think that slight depression is creeping into my bones and robing me from some joy. Depression is no stranger to me. I am a person of high emotion. Highest of highs, and deepest of lows. But I can not pretend to know what clinical depression feels like. I do not sleep for days and forget the sun. I merely loose heart and wallow in self-pity. Mostly, when not writing, these feelings creep over me. Writing is my release. Even when down or glum or "depressed," I find I can lighten my burden of whoa if I pour out my feeling on paper. I let my fingers express the thoughts my mouth can not express in words. So, with Time not so affable of late and treating me as a taskmaster would, I trudge on with gloom above me head.
Do not fear, my friends, a ray of light appears now and then. Thursday I wrote some, yet still feel this confusion over plot and structure for Darian's story. Perhaps I needlessly burden myself with desire of perfection? I so want this to be a good story. I fear a reader's boredom more than anything else. I always have. I do not know how to shirk that apprehension. It stands at my shoulder and questions ever sentence. And then there is always the worry over "suspending a reader's belief" that taunts me. I strive to write "real life" situations but often wonder at what point they can exaggerate true situations because they are FICTION, yet still retain a "realness" for the reader? I often wonder how a fictional tale is taken so extremely seriously one day, and the next day the parts of my tale that are truer than true are believed false and "far-fetched" and unbelievable. They say that life is stranger than fiction. And I have seen it crueler. Know that I place these standards upon myself to deliver stories that are as gripping as real-life pain, yet offer hope that often alludes the oppressed and broken hearted. Oh that those out there under oppression could seek the fairy-tale endings now and again! Some do come true.
And so, this "silence" of mine was due to personal responsibility and a putting off of my personal enjoyment for the needs of others. I WILL see to my need to write, or else suffer a mental breakdown. I NEED to write, like I need to breathe. Pray for my words, if you be a praying person. I wish for them to be good. I wish for them to be meaningful. And wish more than anything that someone who reads Darain's story will relate, and understand, and feel connected, and know that he or she is not alone. Darian's story can not be the only one with such weighty burdens or consequences. Although, remember it IS FICTION, I only have 100,000 words or so to tell the tale. Give me some allowances for embellishment.
As always, I think those out there who care, and who encourage, and who "check in" on me from time to time. (Am I allowed to name names?) Mel- :D thank you. Lynn, "Hi, Back!" Codes- I've not forgotten about our conversation, I merely need words to form sentences. But you are always in my thoughts.
For now I will go, as responsibility calls again!
hugs to you all,
Wade
PS: Update... I have been in e-mail contact with the Editorial Department. Things are moving forward with edits, book blurbs, and front matter. TCOL is coming!!! Just not sure when.
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