A fellow writer says you can’t ever really say why a person writes. Maybe he is right but he’s a bit weird and seems to find oddest meaning in the most ordinary things. I’m as sure as I can be that for me a big part of writing, especially pursuing publication, is because I love books.
I don’t want to write books that are held up as worthy.
I don’t care if I impress people, I mean I’d be happy, but it’s not what I am driving for. I don’t want a book people hold up and say well done, this is how it should be done. I want them to hug it to them and say, oh god I wish I could live in this… and then maybe cry a little because it is over.
And for me that usually means a book that’s battered, with broken spine, frayed edges, scribbles all over the inner pages. I would get inspired and never could find any spare paper.. That’s how I love. I never understood how people could read worrying about not creasing the pages, I break it further and further open, flattening down that little inner hump as it rises out of the spine, so every word is easier to get at, clearer, closer. I want as little as possible to get between me and the story. That’s how I know I fell in love.
How do you know?