However, while that is still true, I think it does go deeper than that. After all, I've always been able to run but it doesn't mean I do (I don't, as it happens. I prefer swimming and Pilates as forms of exercise. Running looks so...ungainly) Yesterday I posted the link to my story, The Sought After Smile, which had been published in the new issue of Luna Station Quarterly. The link was shared on Facebook (seriously, what did we do before social networking?) and someone posted a comment to say it had really cheered them up after a crap day. You know what I did? I smiled (and I am not an inherently cheerful person).
Do you know how ace that feels, to know that something you wrote actually helped to improve someone else's day? That a simple work of fiction could cheer someone up in just a few moments? Ah, escapism. You can't beat it. I suppose I whiled away many a lonely hour as a child, caught up in an Enid Blyton adventure or whizzing through another Roald Dahl, and if I'm completely honest, I still seek solace in books now. To my mind, if I can provide someone with a few moments away from the troubles and stresses of their existence, then that is a job well done.
Yes, it's true. I have no lofty pretensions to creating high art, to leaving a literary legacy that will see schoolchildren pore over my work 200 years from now, to winning awards or changing the world - no, I just want to entertain people. I like to think I'm more Guillermo del Toro than Michael Bay, but the intention is much the same.
Of course, that's not the ONLY reason I write. At the moment, I'm working on a Western novella, tentatively titled Guns of Retribution, about a bounty hunter named Gray O'Donnell. I've written the first draft, and I'm now polishing the rough edges before I send it to my completely awesome beta readers. I'm a natural pedant so if a plot point sticks out like a sore thumb to me, I assume it'll be a red flag to others, so I won't put anything out in front of people until all the narrative logic has been resolved. Now, for one reason and another, I've had to take a couple of breaks from redrafting, and I finally got back into it on Monday night. Re-reading the opening scene, I almost cried - it was like being back among old friends again. Sure, they're imaginary friends, but they're friends all the same.
Writing is an inherently solitary path, but in a perverse kind of way, we're never really alone. We're constantly living out adventures in our heads, chatting to people we've invented, and endlessly creating new places and things. Of course, if most people say they hear voices, they're considered insane, but writers are exempt from this particular social convention.
Good thing, too. I wouldn't dare tell Liss Hunt to shut up.