Life Imitates Art?

So often I wonder if I can actually be a novelist for life.  It is definitely something I would love to do for a career and I already consider myself an author despite being professionally published.  But my thoughts do tend to drift to, Ok who wants to read something I wrote, my life is so boring.  I look at myself as a glob of fears, rules, logic, and wet-blanketness.  I like going new places, but hate travelling to get there.  I am borderline germ-a-phobic, complete emetophobic, and could very easily see the appeal of agrophobia.  I lived a sheltered life, my only year of adventure was when I moved to California at the age of 24. I moved into my very own studio apartment, hung out with a cover band and got a tattoo.  Now I know what you are thinking… Wow, she’s a party animal (said in a sarcastic tone.) 

As for guys, I can actually count on all of my digits the amount of people I’ve dated.  Let’s see I think I may even remember their names:  David, Dave, Dan, Shane, Reno, Mike, Paul, Paul, Scott, and Jon.  Ugh is my list really that short?!  What’s even shorter is how many of those I actually kissed.  Yep, told ya – pretty boring.

So why on earth do I think I can write about people who are interesting, bold and dynamic?  How is it even possible that I can come up love stories at all?  I think it comes down to imagination.  Just because I haven’t experienced a lot of romance and am afraid of everything under the sun, doesn’t mean that a normal and fearless person is inside me somewhere.  I read a lot of love stories and watch tons of lovey-dovey movies.  In fact, I have this cute thing I do with my husband where I see a leading man kissing his leading woman and I nudge Jon signifying him to remember that kiss.  Then later I’ll say, “Oh I need a Zorro kiss,” and he’ll dip me back planting a full, passionate kiss right on the lips.  Ahh :). 

Now when I write, I remember those kisses and all those things I wished I could do and have my characters do them for me.  I even allow them to be sick.  Which I find odd, but hey, I won’t puke but I’ll let my Marine soldier not be able to hold his lunch after witnessing a monk setting himself on fire.  (Side note:  my therapist wants me to write a non-related chapter about that same Marine on a boat, since I mentioned once in therapy that he gets sea sick.  She says that writing about hurling over the side of railing might help me get over being afraid – who knows.  I have yet to write it.)

All in all a good imagination can take you far, especially when adventure is the last thing you want to do.  I do still try to do things on my own, just so you don’t think I’m really that boring, but overall I am a homebody and would rather write about someone else.  Hey, it’s what makes me a good writer.  Now my only hope is that others will think so too and want to publish me.  Ahhh someday!


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