I so admire authors. The ability to create an original world out of words is magical to me. The more original the story, the more my admiration. (I’m speaking mostly of fiction but this applies to non-fiction as well.) A good series of books keeps that world alive and thriving and growing.
I always wanted to be a writer. I pictured myself at a seaside cottage somewhere cold, watching the waves and typing away on an old typewriter. Creating something wonderful that everyone would want more of and basking in the glory that I expected to come my way. Needless to say this hasn’t panned out – that cottage never appeared and it seems I have no talent for creating the sort of fiction I wanted to write.
My father is a writer. He has been working on his book for almost 40 years now and I’m not sure he will ever be finished. I don’t even know if he has ever sent his manuscript in to any publisher. I do know that he loves to write and so he does. He does what he loves to do with no thought to the fame and fortune that I had in my head that a “real writer” gets.
That’s what makes a real writer though. That love of what they are doing, the love of creating, the passion of imagination. Not the accolades.