There’s a saying: If a writer writes a story in a forest and no one is around to read it, is she still a writer? Okay, so maybe it’s not really a saying so much as something I just spouted, but it should be a saying. As far as I’m concerned, without my readers, I wouldn’t really be a writer. I know of what I speak – I didn’t always have readers.
Before on-line posting, Amazon and Kindle, Nook and all of those wonderful things, I wrote and wrote and wrote, but the words I penned remained relatively voiceless, devoid of paramount dimension. There is a certain depth to a sentence or a paragraph that only a thousand sets of eyes can give it. Until they are read by this person and that, they remain mere scribbles on a sheet, pointless and flat. And the one who scratches their curves and lines is no more a writer than a Saturday morning jogger is an Olympic Gold Medalist.
And so this blog is for the readers of the world. Without their open minds, their resolute spine cracking, and their unbreakable will to find the next best plot line and loveable characters, people like me would be scribblers, dabblers, and the dreamers of dreams that had never come true. I can’t stand jogging and would never waste my Saturday morning at such an endeavor. But because of my readers – my wonderful, irreplaceable, magnificent readers – I am a writer, and I wear my gold medal with pride.