This Is A Test

Welcome to my little corner of the internet, readers! Here's an excerpt of a piece that reflects the way I feel about my writing and, by extension, all of you - happy reading!

Wrapped Up In Books

Books belong to their readers. I have always believed that. Not in the literal way – of course books belong to the people who buy them – in the figurative sense, the abstract. When you let your words go into the world of publication they don’t belong to you alone anymore, they belong to everyone who reads them. And there’s nothing you can do about it; those words that you once so carefully cultivated, built into characters and worlds and plots and nurtured into life are subject to the whims of those who read them. The most you can hope for, I suppose, is fans. Respectful fans. People who love your words so much – as much as you, maybe more – that they want them to live on past the final pages of the book. And who are you to take that away from them? You might think you’re still the god of the world you created but actually you stopped being the god of that world the minute you let it out of your hands.

And that’s okay.

***

Generally, Anna knew it was time to go to bed when she glanced up from her writing and found that her room was dark, illuminated only by the pale glow of her laptop screen. Tonight shouldn’t have been any different, but instead of closing the laptop and at least trying to get some sleep she carried on. She swept a few stray strands of auburn hair back into the bun tied messily on the back of her head. Why was it that inspiration always hit hardest after 2AM? And why did this particular 2AM have to be the night before – or maybe it was the morning of – the first day of her new job. Anna stifled a yawn; she might have felt passionate about the writing she was doing, but she definitely was not passionate about the intense tiredness that accompanied it.

Anna leant back against the headboard of her bed, digging her fingers into the mattress. It was like having an incredibly wordy waterfall constantly raging in her head lately; words poured out of her at all times of the day. The worst was during conversations – the writing seeped in through the smallest cracks and dragged the subject away in its rapid current. No one, not even writers, wanted to talk about writing all the time. Anna wondered if you could get sick of your own words – your own voice, even. 

It was becoming an increasingly conceivable possibility. 

Perhaps she would take a vow of silence. But then would the words just find another way out? Maybe she would explode. She wrinkled her nose; it was definitely time to sleep. She closed her laptop resignedly, her fingers still itching for the feel of the keys under them. It was completely and totally dark without the light of the screen to illuminate the room, and soon enough Anna felt the pull of sleep.

It seemed that only moments had passed since closing her eyes when Anna was jolted awake by her alarm. It must have been later than she had thought when she fell asleep – it felt as though she had barely slept for five minutes.