I have a constant companion. His name is Fear. Fear that my writing will never be good. Fear that I will accidently get lost in my own stories. That I actually hurt people with it. Real people.
Others think they are just the part of my imagination, just some kind of mind-creations. No. They are all real to me. As long as their story is unwritten, they are safe, they are not complete. Once it is written, it cannot be changed. It is done. I can’t save them any more.
Some people say I don’t have to kill them. Well, I don’t want to… Sometimes, the story demands a sacrifice, a sacrifice that cannot be denied. Yes, it is meaningful, but seeing all the pain it causes makes me want to cry out loud.
I feel everything that my characters feel. I share their happiness, their sorrow, their pain. I am right there, when they have to make the decision, when they have to act. And not always in the way that is forgivable. To me, they are more living that most people that I know in real life.
I may not become a writer, out of the fear that I hurt these people in my head. I don’t want to cause pain to anyone. I might be too sentimental for most people, but this is how I feel. Writing makes me both ecstatically happy and incredibly sorrowful. I wish there would be another way. But I suppose I just have to live with this. I have to try and give them a purpose, a reason to die for. I want people to sing songs about them. To look up for them. To represent the ideas of a dreamer.
A dreamer of a better World.