So I was watching Avatar again the other day (hear that, James Cameron? I’m supporting your royalties. Still waiting on that phone call) and it re-inspired me to get my butt in gear. Aside from preparing for and working the Family Days event, I’ve been working really hard on my story. Tomorrow I’ll even be on a conference call with the publishers to finalize plans for Walk the Red Road. I admit I was getting bored with it (you can only read/carefully scrutinize/analyse something so many times in a short period of time before you’d rather rub sandpaper in your eyes than read another word), but alas, Avatar has restored my love.
While watching the movie, I started thinking about how much I love fantasy. I guess it makes sense, since I make my living telling made-up stories, but it’s interesting (to me, anyway) because I used to hate reading fantasy. Fantasy movies, totally love. Books, well they bored me. Then I wrote BTWS, and I suppose its elements of the supernatural gave me a new appreciation for the genre.
This year all I’ve read are fantasy books. Pretty much everything by Ann Bishop, The Mortal Instruments series (for like the sixth time), The Hunger Games series (kind-of fantasy, but I say it counts), Brom’s The Child Thief, the Percy Jackson series (hey, this one counts too), to name a few. I’ve absolutely loved them all.
The only problem? Now my imagination is in constant fantasy mode and I can’t turn it off. I’m constantly picturing new worlds and imaging myself in other-realm places, especially Narnia. Oh, how I love Narnia. It’s my favorite fantasy. When I’m falling asleep I imagine myself being transported to that world, sailing the Dawn Treader with Caspian (played by Ben Barnes, of course), battling the White Witch, searching for the lost Prince Rilian.
For your viewing pleasure (all Google pics):
That’s the existence meant for me, and sometimes I forget that I can never have it, and that such magic doesn’t really exist.
Or does it? I’m convinced my bank might be magic, or at the very least, that tiny people live inside the ATM. They started this new thing where you make deposits without needing an envelope and I can’t figure out how the damn thing works. You can put in up to 50 bills and 30 checks at a time and it counts them all, and accurately. How? How does it know what’s written on a check? How does it read the bills? It’s magic, or money elves. There’s really no other solution.
But anyway, I think I had a point to this long, drawn-out chronicle of hearing myself talk, if I can remember it. Ah, yes. Fantasy. It’s more than just a genre to me; it’s a way of life. Or at least, it’s become one in the way that I view writing.
Do I truly believe that I’ll one day be the best-selling success that is Nora Roberts or Carl Hiaasen (I use them as examples since they are the only ones I’ve ever met)? Do I think that booksellers will be lining up to schedule nationwide book tours? Honestly, no. I’m not so naïve to believe that such things are possible for all people who wish it.
However, I cannot give up hope that someday, perhaps some modicum of success will be mine. Perhaps this depends on how you define success, as I don’t define it by how much money one makes, but rather how well you get your story across, and make people want to read more and more of your work. I think I have this in me, and a part of me even thinks that one day James Cameron really will call to discuss movie rights, or that a major bookseller would eagerly stock my novels and set up a nationwide tour.
Or maybe, as Wendy would say, “It is your biggest pretend.”
Hey, if this is my fantasy, my dream, then I’d say it could be worse. Let’s just hope I never wake up.