Today, I wrote two chapters of my current novel, covering the climax. Whoo. There is just no greater entertainment. Oh, sure, you’ll be able to read it someday when it’s published, but writing it — that’s different.
In every media, there’s attenuation. A scene in one person’s head is transferred to another. But this isn’t immersive telepathy, it’s words on paper, or images on a screen. Writing a novel, things imagined are left out. Richness of imagery is sacrificed to pacing, to clarity. And to be honest, the human race has yet to produce a perfect writer.
Reading a text, hints on the page are mixed with the experiences and imagination of the reader. Sometimes, it’s possible the reader’s image is even richer, more real than that in the writer. But even then, it’s not the same.
Movies are even worse. Screenplay, script, actor’s interpretation, director’s interpretation, et. al. It’s a wonder anything coherent comes out the pipe. See a good movie? Treasure it.
But what happened to me today is a different thing. I imagined the scenes as a crude plot. I developed the characters over months of writing. I researched the environment until I knew what was real, and what was just wishful thinking. And then I wrote it, honing and tuning the words until the emotions in my characters felt right. And I wrote it a heart-pounding pace. When I finished for the day, I was limp, and my heart was still pounding. It was more real than any books I read. It was more vivid than any movie I see. The emotions burned.
It has been said that if a writer can be discouraged from pursuing this career, then it’s a kindness to do so. But for many of us, it’s an addiction that cannot be shaken. It’s a life choice than cannot be abandoned.
I know I’m hooked.