I love all my books in their own way, even the shitty one I wrote when I was a teenager. A few I love a little more because they’re so fun, like Emma and the Air Pirates. Then along comes something like Erik’s Tale.
I don’t just love this book. I’m in love with it.
My writing buddy A says she gets a contact high from being around me when I talk about it. I get this big ol’ smile and I chatter on about it as long as she’ll let me. I feel like I’m lighting up inside when I talk about Erik’s Tale, sometimes even when I just think about it. This story has been living inside me, waiting to get out, and letting myself write it is such a relief. Writing it should be harder than it is. I’m laying my heart out on the page, mingling my blood with the (virtual) ink. This story cuts deep, and I’ve cried more than once while writing particularly painful scenes. When I write Erik’s POV, I sometimes see myself staring back from the page. It’s bringing up old pain from my younger days, and other pains that have been buried deep that are still very much alive. I’m afraid of this story.
But my god, I love writing it.
Because the thing about fiction is you can twist things any way you want to. My story isn’t about tragic obsession or a descent into darkness. It’s about hope and redemption. It’s about finding humanity. I can keep kicking Erik because I know he’s not doomed.
I love being able to take this story and mold it into the shape I want. I love discovering things about Erik and Christine. I love watching them grow. I even love being cruel to them while I alternately laugh and cry at what they’re going through. I love rereading my favorite scenes, over and over, because this time I’m truly following the advice to write the book you want to read.
I love being in love.