I may not be entirely well…

I have a love hate relationship with reality. I have…worlds inside my head, worlds that feel real, with people I know and care about and want to talk about. Characters, as they should properly be called, that I miss because I can’t see them in ‘real life,’ and never will because, technically, I created them. But did I? Where did they really come from? Where did their worlds? Because I feel more like I am recording their stories than making them up, describing their worlds than building them.

I have a love hate relationship with writing. The more I write, the more time I spend in these other worlds. The more flimsy the ‘real’ world feels. The more I want to talk about my characters with the people I know like they are mutual friends that I’ve seen more recently. The more heartsick I feel because I miss people and places that exist only on the page.

I have a love hate relationship with publishing. I really want to be published so people can find my work the way I’ve found so many others. So that other people can get to know my friends the way I do. So that people can dream in my worlds the way I do in both my own and those borrowed. But it’s so very hard to break in, so very hard to get attention, so very hard…

Am I the only one who finds writing dangerous yet compulsory? Am I the only one with such a tenuous grasp on ‘reality?’

Does anyone actually want to read my books and stories? To meet my friends?

It doesn’t matter. I’m writing anyway. I’m querying agents anyway. I’m submitting to journals and anthologies anyway. These worlds are in my head for a reason. These characters are speaking to me for a reason. If I am unwell, if this would all go away were I to ‘recover,’ I’m not sure I would want to. The universe expands ever outward. I want to explore it. Humanity is even deeper. I want to dive into it.