The greatest challenge of any writer is that of the their own creations birthing. Like a nervous mother rubbing a large belly, we hold our creations close, listening, feeling the breath of their creation on us.
So it is unfair an unjust for a writer to be so hard on one self. Writing its self is a journey into the inner dark, that peeling of layers of treacherous past choices begging to be burned in to the souls of each character.
My own experiences have been vast, from a simple better understanding of a subject to a spiritual Revelation. I don’t claim to retake the invention of the wheel, far from it. There are seas wide and open with hundreds of thousands of literary voices, I a single fish; in the sea of an anomaly called the human imagination, only hope to achieve the symbiotic relationship in all life.
To go with the flow, to be a greater part of the world. A single voice to fill a choir.
So amongst Roar, and her sister stories, the voices of a thousand strangers will speak through to bare their own tales. Be they my own from my own creation and deep dream like subconscious, or brought to me in a bloodied nightmare, where I writhe and terrify myself to awaken. I am their bard.
Some you may meet will cause you to fall deeply and foolishly in love with them, willing to give what another would for such a prize. Others you will curse and wish to crush with your own hands, but fear the fall of an entire society if taken from their place.
Being a Writer is the closest one can feel to being a Goddess. I have ultimate power and control of a massive world, where my decisions change the flow of events, altering its courses, taking lives, creating them. Some in the deep thinking scientific community would say I rule the domain of an alternate universe. The world unfolds in a blanket of memory, rising and forming from consciousness and group cognitive thinking. The world exist because my mind does.
These are the philosophical terrors I deal with when making chess like moves in a world twisted in my gray matter.
So as a bard of the spirit I must bring their world to pen and paper, and then the hand numbing task of typing begins,and the ideas, like blood in our own veins flesh them selves out in to breathing, speaking, loving, angry, treacherous, jealous, feverish, wild beings that demand attention and prostration at times.
The task is hard, and I understand now why many like Lewis and Tolken who poured over their workd for 15-20 years before they dare share the light of the burning sun to their children born of ink.