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!