Three years ago I decided I needed to write. I became an avid reader in my 30’s. I love the fantasy genre. I finished reading a series by a favorite author and felt empty inside. I’m sure some of you understand what that feels like. I searched for another book to fill the void. The one I wanted to read wasn’t out there. I had a long list of ideas, characters, and systems in place as a measure of what I wanted in a book. Then it dawned on me – I need to write this. Not because I have some grand illusion that I will one day “make it big”. But because what I wanted to read wasn’t written yet.
I write this on the precipice of finishing the third and final book in my series. There are so many loose ends and subplots to tie together. I know what happens. I have written the final scene. But I am terrified to put down, in black and white, the pages leading up to the ending. Why…?
I know some of the characters die. Some of them learn things and experience things that are painful. I hate to do that to these characters…these pieces of me.
I hold on to this project…this part of my life, unwilling to turn loose of this child I so love. Three years…three years I have laughed and cried with them. I have watched them come alive, fall in love, suffer and triumph. Will there ever be another story that grips me like this one? Will there come a day when I don’t think about them, about this story, this world? I hope not. I owe it to them to give them their ending. I owe it to myself to complete the series I always wanted to read. If someone, one day, reads this and enjoys it, then I count myself lucky. If no one does, then I am still blessed for the journey.