Proud

I would like to be proud of myself as a writer. I’d like to look at The Afternoon King and see more than just the product of thirteen months hidden away in my parents’ basement, working part-time at a real job while the rest of my life burned like a dumpster fire in my own head. My dad tells me all the time that people are envious of writers. I know he’s given me a number of reasons why, but I tune him out as soon as I sense a lecture. I always retort that writers are people with nothing better to do. I understand that’s not fair. I understand I say that only because that’s how I saw myself as a writer: an overeducated idiot with no greater purpose than to bury herself in a world of her own creation.

I’ve come to terms that I write almost exclusively for myself. My family enjoys the little stories I construct. My friends smile when I talk about writing because they know I haven’t been passionate about anything for a few years now. I’m fortunate to have the support that I do.

I would be honored to be compared to someone like Tolkien, but I wasn’t inventive enough to create a new language for the imaginary races in my book. I would love to be compared to someone like J.K. Rowling, but I know my writing will never be as successful. And I don’t dare to even dream of being compared to Stephen King. I won’t be half as prolific or captivating. I don’t think that anyone will remember Rebecca Creos, but I hope that some of what I wrote lives on in someone’s memories.

I’m fiercely proud of the world I made. I would put it up against any fantasy world created in recent years. My characters are true and conflicted and enchanting and as hungry for acceptance as we are. I just wish that I could be as proud of myself as I am of them.