Bear with me, I will be rambling a bit today.

What are my intentions? The dream alone is not enough. I want to go beyond the dream. For years, I was not at the place to do more than dream about it, but now I can see past it.

I see a lot of authors saying that you write the story for yourself, and I agree with that, up to a point. I had Josh and Sofia’s story in my mind (and in my heart)  for years and years before I was able to start writing it. I did it more than just for me- I did it for them. They need their story told, and I’m the only one who can tell it. I know a lot of people will think I’m nuts for saying this, or saying it like this, but this is the way I feel about it. I work for them, they don’t work for me. My intentions and my dreams have to meet somewhere, they help each other along. Writing the story and then placing it in the virtual drawer is not an option. Whatever publishing route I choose, it will be the one I deem best for their story, the one that will best serve it. It’s my promise to them, and a sort of duty to my dream.

I have lots of doubts. Lots and lots of them, actually. In the beginning, I doubted I could write a full length novel. Now that I did, I doubt I’ll be able to write a second (I started it, but can I finish it?). I always wonder what the beta-readers will think about it, how many mistakes they will find. I doubt whether I can finish revisions and edits on The Secret Life of Daydreams and make it good enough to be published. And how will I publish it? Will the readers like it? On any given day, the doubts just pile on.

It would just be easier (and less stressful, for sure) to forget all about it. But I don’t. I started on this crazy road and I don’t want to ask for a ride back to the start line; I’m going to finish it. Because I love words. I love Josh and Sofia and all their friends (and Simon and Isabel, and all the other main characters waiting for their turn). I love this story and if I don’t believe in it, who will?

For me, writing is magic, just like reading is. Words have an intrinsic magical power that transforms and grows and pulls at the meaning  of one another, and at the relationship each one has with its neighbors. Now that I am squarely on both sides of it, I find that the fence between reading and writing is not a clear one because so much depends on the subjectivity and meaning of the words, and on the way they’re written and read.

Samuel Johnson said it better:

 

In the end, whatever intentions and hopes I have for my book, however I wish my story to be perceived, once it’s in the hands of the reader, it’s out of my control. Just like my experience of writing is personal, and it reflects in my writing style, so the experience of reading it is an absolutely individual and unique one to each reader.

And that’s what makes books so awesome, both for the writer and for the reader. Books never stop growing, and dreams shouldn’t either.