Dreamer

It had been months since that silent proclamation, and little by little, the cobbled up ideas transformed into a true draft. Something he felt was presentable, a snippet he could share with the world without shame.

The document was light. At least, it weighed little if measured in kilobytes and words. To Murphy, however, that tiny space on his hard drive was everything. It bore a portion of his soul, so it could not be any heavier.

Having written for months, you would expect to see a few volumes of readied material, but no. It was a few thousand words, redrafted endlessly time and time again.

If his mind was to be laid bare before the world — it had to be perfect.

His mania ended only when he himself was capable of sinking into the allure of that false premise. When each word touched his strings, and all but involuntarily made him feel something special.

When his text became a drug, then and only then — he felt ready.

With his work complete, it was time to give it a name and a face. Surprisingly, finding a short name took as much time as writing an entire chapter. It felt justified, however, seeing as it was the first glimpse his readers would share.

Jumping into old lexicons in a fruitless search for meaning, he embroidered his name with metaphors and riddles that appealed to him.

Then, he was told it sucked. Bluntly, and repeatedly.

The truth tasted bitter in his mouth, but he had no choice but to heed it.

From something intricate, he stripped everything that gave it depth and chose what appealed to readers — clickbait!

Harem, Vampires, Systems, Tits, Crowns and Deities — you name it.

It couldn't get any worse, but it appallingly worked. People seemed to dig it, and he begrudgingly went along with their advice, not taking into account if it was ever honest.

Murphy was naive, a beginner. He thought his newfound love for books was shared by everyone, without ever taking into account the base human instinct. Taking advice at face value, he never stopped to think of things like jealousy, or the possibility that anyone bore him ill will.

Unknowingly falling into a pitfall, he nonetheless completed the task. Slapping on a cover wherein a chasmic cleavage occupied at least thirty percent of it, it was finally ready.

A sense of euphoria settled over his heart. His masterwork complete. The dice ready to be cast, all that remained was to post it.

But first, an introduction.

- — ✎ — -

What should be the first words you tell your reader?

A blank screen meets you, and you readily type out your heart.

You greet them with palpable enthusiasm, and share just how happy you are to impart this corner of your imagination with them. You are ready to open yourself to them fully — but they don't want it. They care not for your sacrifices, nor the amount of time you spent writing this prologue.

No, they want a story.

Not just any story, but a good story. One that resonates with their inner desires, and pulls them across the banal veil of modern society. They yearn for a new world, one devoid of the same trivial problems that plague us.

Are they capricious? To desire something special on a silver platter, even while disregarding the rare condiments that gave taste to the dish. Is it wrong for them to yearn for an escape?

No.

It is what it is, and complaints will not change reality. So — we dream.

We hope.

- — ✎ — -

Murphy was a hopeful fool like many others. He too craved an escape, but whilst others were content to live in the dreams of others, he wanted to craft his own.

Over the years, he delved into innumerate fantasies, and readily lost himself in their borders. That's when he recognized the problem — borders. To lose yourself in someone else's dream, is to be constrained by their imagination.

He wanted to be free. He had an ocean of books at his fingertips, but he wanted infinity.

And so, he sought it out at last. After many months, he opened that one draft, the file he misplaced among cluttered folders from years back. The nucleus of a forgotten dream — ready to be explored.

Unfolding it was not even the difficult part. After all, he had the core, the motivation, the skill. He had everything — but the reader.

In the writer's quest for boundless exposition, he forgot himself. He forgot what it meant to be a dreamer. The needs and wants he himself once expected to be met, were now mirrored. It was his turn to struggle.

Few readers can empathize with writers. This divide is borne of a simple misconception, and it has to do with time.

It takes minutes to read a thousand words, and a thousand tears to write for minutes.

Just kidding, it's not nearly as depressing, and most authors don't stress the logic of the time spent, even as hours are accrued every day with little to show for.

They take it as a natural investment, and they do so willingly — because they're dreamers.

With each passing day, they push the imaginary borders just a little further. An inch at a time, an hour at a time. Time elapses, and before long their dream can now encompass two.

They welcome their first visitor, and everything changes.

Good feedback is like a love confession with diminishing returns. The first one sets your heart aflutter like no other. It pushes you to make sacrifices that are entirely illogical, making you ready to chase to the ends of the earth to fulfill those urges.

Therein lies the imbalance. The misconception.

To earn that one simple comment, months of hard work are needed.

To write "good job", only a wishful impulse is sufficient.

Perhaps more paradoxical of all, is that writers readily make the trade.

It's good enough, as long as someone loves it.

Any sacrifice is worth it — as long as we can dream together.