I want to be a novelist because I have this story rattling around in my brain. I can see the characters. I can taste the food I’m describing. I can smell the smoky air in Mozambique and the pollution in Phoenix — my settings. I have conversations with the characters in my dreams, which completely rocked my boat the first time it happened. I know who I want to play their roles when this tale hits the big screen.
I want to be a novelist because I am my happiest when I am writing. I love sharing stories, which I’m sure is why I also enjoy blogging and traveling. When I go into a bookstore, I always go to the literary section to see where my books would be on the shelf. One day, they will all be lined up right there between Donleavy and Dostoevsky. In the meantime, I push a gap between those who have published before me and visualize my stories in print, the title the spine, a quick and grabbing summary on the back.
I want to be a novelist because I want others to see a new perspective — the world travels of a well-meaning girl who simply wants to leave the earth better than when she arrived. My stories are fundamentally a part of me — I can’t imagine any writer feeling otherwise.
For the first time in a long time, I’m feeling rejuvenated in my writing and am making great progress on the hurculean task of editing novel numero uno. The carrot at the end of the stick, other than my dreams of sitting on the yellow couch, is addressing the characters in story numero dos, who are crying in the corner from neglect.
~K