It’s a daunting task as a writer to carry with us the countless fictious characters we create. They become a part of us, their lives, their heartaches and joys, their pains, their pleasures. We know them as we know ourselves which is why often times I believe we find it difficult to write about them. We expose them and in so doing we expose ourselves. We filet them for all the world to see, every bone, every muscle, raw flesh, our flesh.
Author Paul Gallico (The Poseidon Adventure) wrote,
“It is only when you open your veins and bleed onto the page a little that you establish contact with your reader.”
With our writer’s veins opened we let droplets of letters fall to the page, puddles of blood forming words, sentences and paragraphs, our life force flowing and purging our minds, hearts and souls of those nameless faces that we breathe life into and burn onto the pages of books; novels, works of poetry, screenplays, stageplays and the like.
Yes, heavy is the load we writers carry and joy is the bloodied road we travel because we must, because if we didn’t our souls, like our ficticious characters would cease to exist.