Closing the Book on Writing?

 Carolyn J. Rose

 

Much as I’ve enjoyed creating and spending decades with characters of all sorts—killers, clairvoyants, ghosts, teens, seniors, substitute teachers, wealthy widows, and orphaned children—I find myself wanting to hang out with those who populate books by other writers.

 Translation: I want to write less and read more.

 

I was the kid who fell in love with books as soon as I could sound out words, the kid who read with a flashlight under the covers, who wrote stories for cousins and classmates. I was the teen who penned anguished poetry. I was the young adult who spilled details of every relationship onto the tear-smudged pages of a journal. I was the older adult taking writing classes and going to conferences and seeking agents and publishers, then taking the independent road and uploading manuscripts and dreaming up promotional ideas.

 

Now I’m the gray-haired even older adult with carpal tunnel syndrome, sciatic nerve issues, and holes in my memory where character details used to be. Sure there are notebooks and file cards and character sketches in the computer. With the aid of those I could keep going. But B.B. King’s song about the thrill being gone echoes in my mind.

 

So I’ve been saying that The Three Shades of Justice: In the Grip of Obsession, will be the last I’ll write. I’ve been telling myself that I followed my dream, that two dozen books is an accomplishment I can be proud of.

 

And I’ve also been reminding myself to never say “Never.” Tomorrow or next week a compelling character could take up residence in my busy brain, start tugging at the synapses, and insist I return to the keyboard.

 

Until then, I’ll enjoy engaging with characters created by other writers.