I remember when I was you. Hell, I am you. I have read more books than I have time for. I have sacrificed so I can buy ‘just one more book.’ I have told my husband ‘Just one more page…’ and turned out the light three hours later, because I. Just. Couldn’t. Stop. Reading. (The Harry Potter series comes to mind!)
I feel your frustration when a story doesn’t ring true. I take it personally when all the ribbons aren’t tied up into neat bows at the end of the novel and there are plot holes so large my Great Dane could sleep comfortably in them. I get especially irked when the cover of the novel has nothing whatsoever to do with the plot contained therein. I am you.
Grammar errors and spelling errors and errors in tense kill me. I want my escape from reality to be picture perfect. I don’t want anything to pull me out of the idea that I can, for a little while, be someone else; have someone else’s personality; be that bubbly, vivacious someone who has adventures and falls for the unattainable handsome who eventually realizes he can’t live without me.
I am an author. I put my stories down on paper. I write out those impossible people I want to be. I create the adventures I wish I could have. And I give them to you.
Are they perfect beyond measure? Of course not. But I have two choices. I can edit them into oblivion, until there is nothing left of the passion I started with; just words on a page, or I can release them, knowing full well there might be minor mistakes, things you catch that I have missed, but also knowing that getting the story out into the world is worth the risk of a wrongly turned sentence.
So, Dear Reader.
If you read my words, forgive the mistakes. Because I am still you.