I woke this morning, as I do most mornings, with the need for a good cup of coffee in my favorite spot in the solarium. I sit here most morning randomly musing the possibility of life in space, or even the probability of unicorns. Both of which normal people would say, you are daft if you think these things exist. But, I assure you I am lucid in all respects, except for my writing of course. Honestly reading a lucid writer is like eating sand.
I prefer the fanciful. The outlandish and capricious love stories that make my vibration level hit the most amazing highs. I sit and catalog in my mind palace, yes Benedict Cumberbatch fan, all the love stories I have read in my many years of existing. I have carefully cataloged how each one has changed me in some small way, or big way if you have ever read the Chamberlands by Cherry Wilder. All writing is gear towards one thing, entertaining the reader. But, how often do we as writers realize that to the reader this is a guide to life. The guide to If I try this will he love me more. If i say that will I get the girl. The moments you read something in a characters actions and say, Holy Crap he is so cool.
Think back over the years at everything you have ever read, the ones so extraordinary they have always stayed with you. The ones you couldn’t bare to lend out because you knew you would never get it back. How did those books effect your writing tone, story ideas, genre, and your otherwise whimsical side. Can you say that you have not been effected by one book or another?
And people insist authors have no pull on the fabric of reality. There words are merely fun. This I find most amusing.