A Window on my Imagination
Creative writing, to me, is about exploring my imagination. There are an infinite number of infinite worlds that exist in our minds, and writing gives me a window through which I can peer into my own imagination.
This morning, I woke up feeling a little sad. I felt sad because I realized that no matter how richly I developed the characters in my writing, they would still forever be but fleeting wraiths in an ethereal fantasy. Despite coming from within me, I will never meet these people.
It's a very strange feeling, and I'm not yet sure what to make of it. On the one hand, I feel like I have some vested interest in these characters and their lives, as though they were children. On the other hand, I realize that I also play God on their worlds. Are authors of fiction gods in the worlds of their creation? Certainly I think so. Is this what makes writing attractive to some? Perhaps. I' not sure where my thinking is on this yet.
Regardless, I'm beginning to realize that the real motivation to write comes not from some audience, but rather because I feel an obligation and duty to the characters. It's as though beause they exist only in my mind until I write about them, giving them a window through which to show us their lives, it's up to me to bring them to life, so to speak. After a while, I think that becomes the true motivation: if I don't conclude their story, they end up in limbo. And I wouldn't want to do that to my characters.