Something has been tugging at me, pulling me down the last several days. I haven't felt myself. I tried to sit down last night and couldn't. Today, I figured out what it was. You see, I'm a thinker, a planner. If I see X and then Y, then together they must add up to something. The analytical side of me has this subconscious calculator that says I spent such and such amount of time writing, plus such and such amount of money to publish, that must equal less than so many book sales x so much royalty dollars per sale. Or something like that. The thinker in me expects a return on the investment I made.
That's not why I wrote ON FALLEN WINGS. It isn't.
A friend at work sent me an email today. She was at home and her message to me said something like this. "I'm sitting here bawling. I just finished your book and it was wonderful. You better not make me wait very long for the sequel. I'm so proud and amazed that you created this. I felt like I walked and lived with the characters. Thank you."
I made my friend cry. My book made my friend cry.
A couple days ago, my wife's sister emailed her and said that she had yelled at Rhiannon at one point in the book. Yelled. She was so caught up in the story and could see what might happen next, that she was telling the character in my story to stop.
I don't think I'm that different from anyone who wants to be successful as a writer. My book is out so I keep checking back to see my rankings, to measure how I'm doing against other works like mine. I want to be at the top. I want to be the best. Who measures the best? Amazon? NO. As an artist, my reward is knowing that I stirred something in my audience. To see their tears; to hear their yells; to discover that what I did inspired them to react is better than any amount of money I'll ever make in this adventure. Today, I got my reward. Thank you.
It's time to write.
