Information

Novels has a minion!

Reader the Book Worm

Novels
Legacy Name: Novels

The

Vibrant Ontra
Owner:

Snoopy

Age: 12 years, 9 months, 1 week

Born: July 15th, 2011

Adopted: 7 years, 10 months, 1 week ago

Adopted: June 17th, 2016

Statistics

Level: 31
Strength: 77
Defense: 70
Speed: 51
Health: 60
HP: 60/60
Intelligence: 1,127
Books Read: 1113
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Lead Librarian

It is not, as so many assume, easy. To write. To become a writer. It eats you up. The words become large, the metaphors massive, and, suddenly, you're the girl in the back of the classroom scribbling fiction although you would really, really like to hear what your favorite professor is saying about Allen Ginsberg. He understands, of course, your need to write, to get it all down, and, he also knows that when you're not in class, you're working to pay for school or eating or doing school work or sleeping, and so, when you're not in class, you do not have time to even consider writing fiction. So he smiles when you glance up, and repeats something you didn't hear about Ginsberg, because he understands, but, it's not the same.

Writing is a great joy - the greatest, really. The high that comes developing a character or suddenly realizing where the plot must go is incomparable. It's a drug, an addiction. But it's rare. Writing isn't, as I'm so many times asked, just sitting and watching letters string into words string into sentences into paragraphs into stories. Those who write, well, we tend to hate it. Because it's all about perfection. The perfection that can't be reached in normal life. The perfection in flaws. The perfection in chaos. And creating that? It's almost impossible. Sure, people do it, and do it well, but the average writer doesn't spit that brilliance out in a first attempt. Fits of creativity come and go. It's a sluggish job that is so physically draining it sometimes feels as though it is honestly going to kill you. You become your own murderer. Staying up late into the night, chasing the snatch of an idea. Scribbling half-boiled thoughts into any scrap of paper, only to lose them, and be devastated. It's awful, really.

And yet, I will not stop.

It is my dream. My life. To write, and read, and go through this life and tell the truth. Because that's all it is, fiction, really - a truth made up of a web of beautifully intricate lies.

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