This was on my mind. And I felt uneasy until I finally had gotten these thoughts out of my system.
I, at one point or another, fretted over the reinventions of the first story I wished to tell. I’ve devised four different takes (of the most recent), each possessing their own sub-revisions. As such Version A, B, C, and D, each one different from the other. Either settings, characters, plot-line and so on. Each Version had revisions within that version. The intention on the final universe was in mind. It would take years of practice.
My goal at the onset of the most recent incarnation of the first story, wasn’t for publication, it was for pure enjoyment and practice. My skill level was a such dismal state that I knew it would be a long time until I could find the true story, possess the narrative skills, and be able to express the real characters. (Not that my skill set is that great still. It’s better, but could also ‘be’ better)
Over years I developed these people, creatures and lore. They dwelt in my dreams, in my daily thoughts, they had become to me, like Spider-man, Harry Potter, Aegis, The Winchesters, Odd Thomas, to mention a few, which have a life of their own. They seem like real people to me existing in mental spaces.
But this process. Admittedly, I at times, regretted the whole process. The insanity of never ending cycles of creation and destruction; ripping apart my characters, reforming them. Changing planets, lore, monsters. I had created, at one point, during high-school, a small sampling of an invented language, which would receive the most attention out of a slew of languages I devised for the planet. I was rather Tolkien obsessed (still am) and had a difficult time dissociating my true deep interests and what I wanted to write out of fanaticism and idolization.
But, these things, these seeming failures, were all tools for refinement. Technically, (if this can be considered) I began writing ‘this’ story, my first story, my current story, the one I was hellbent upon finding, when I turned fifteen or so. It started as a ‘fanfic’ of sorts. I created characters based upon the personae of my friends. So to have a base-work do to my inexperience. (Not that using templates of people you know, or amalgamations are a sign of a lack of skill–it was just a line of thought at the time since my characters were wooden. Like oak. Or maybe acacia) It was a science fiction. Now, it is a supernatural fantasy, and is as related to the same work as Earth is to Neptune. Same solar system, different planets, different forms.
I cannot disregard the beginnings of my works, but as I’ve realized, I’ve written so much, I’ve created so many different stories looking for ‘the’ story, that I cannot say anymore that I’ve spent ‘x amount of years’ developing this one. True, I started Version A of the most recent iteration of Nara several years ago, but it is unrecognizable to the work I have now entering BETA readers’ hands.
I constantly hear of it takes writers six months to a year, or years to write their work. I’m entirely uncertain, how long I’ve truly been developing Nara. I’ve written the beginnings to other stories, from outlines to several chapters. Even mentally fleshing out the skeletal and blood work of the story. I’ve finished a short story yet to be tested. But really, how long have I been working on Nara? It’s apart of a trilogy of works, which are just the first saga. With the level of fleshing out I’ve managed to do, and wish to incorporate into future works, I could see myself writing many, many books of different stories within a singular universe. Different kinds of stories, from psychics to mages; to knights, and the mundane, all within the same universe. It’s a romantic idea, and may not be as expansive do to my uninterest in pursuing certain genera, but perhaps a form of it will come to pass.
I also encounter many predicaments in that many, many authors discourage working on sequels; the chance your first of the series will not be published, will potentially kill your subsequent works. Resulting in wasted time, a broken heart, and maybe some pissed characters. But the problem I face is that I don’t ‘feel’ I have a choice. I need to write these people, and stories out. Irrespective of the potential publication or lack thereof. There are other characters, other stories begging to be written, and I’ve humored them to a point; but my center goal, the loudest people, need to exist, for me, for them.
It is only recently, have I reached a level of literary as well as pictorial artistic levels that I feel I may be on the precipice of reaching public consumption. I soon may, if I keep trudging through this tundra, find people who adore these stories and wish to experience them. I will truly be happy if these characters are given life by more than just me.
Am I happy all the time writing with such potential failure? No. Do I sometimes worry, regret and even mock myself for my self assumed idiocy for pursuing this? Yes. Do I still think, in the end, it is worth it? It’s me, it’s my deep desire, and I can’t deny what I love.
See you, readers.