The Abby Diaries

The Abby Diaries: Entry Seven

April 21 * 5:37PM

Currently Reading: The List by Siobhan Vivian

There’s no doubt that I love books. In fact, you could probably say that I am obsessed with them, and that would be an accurate description. There’s nothing like diving into a good book and letting the story take you away to another place. Some might say it’s just escapism, that there’s something wrong with me because I feel more alive when I’m reading a book than I do in real life. And who knows, maybe they’d be right. Maybe if I was analyzed by a psychiatrist, she’d find that I’m using my favorite stories to give me a distraction from my own life, which is relatively tame.

            But I don’t care, because I love them.

            And I don’t discriminate. I’ll read mysteries, suspense, young adult, true crime, auto-biographies, chick-lit, paranormal, romance, paranormal romance, historical romance, sci-fi, horror. You name it, I’d probably give it a try. Except for bodice-ripping romances. Those were never on my reading lists.

            I’m proud to be a reader. I think more kids my age should read. I think it kick-starts the imagination and forces us to use our creativity. There’s just so much more to a book than say, a movie. For instance, when you watch Harry Potter, only about half the book actually makes it in there. It’s not the director’s fault. The film would end up being eight hours long if they included everything. But in a book, you can take your time. There are no restraints on length, money or special effects. It just is what it is, in its entirety.

            When people find out that I’m a reader, they automatically assume I’m also a writer. This so isn’t true. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a secret dream of mine to write books like the ones I love to read. I can’t even imagine what it must feel like for an author to type the last words of their manuscript and then have others read it and fall in love. I feel giddy just thinking about it.

            But for me, this is just a dream. Because the truth is, I have nothing to write about.

            It’s hard to explain, but I’ve always felt like I have nothing to draw from. I’m still pretty young and have a loving family. I wasn’t used or abused growing up. I’ve never truly been in love (my crush on Toby doesn’t count) and I’ve never lost anything important to me. And sure, I can do magic, but even that’s pretty tame. It’s not like I use it to fight bad guys or make people do things for my own personal gain.

            So what would I possibly have to write about?

            And this is where everyone seems to have a problem with my argument: Why do I think I have to experience things in order to write about them?

            I I get what they’re saying, really I do. It’s not like Suzanne Collins actually lived through The Hunger Games before she wrote the book. And Stephanie Meyer didn’t know a girl who knew a girl who dated a vampire and then turned into one herself. I understand that those are works of fiction, creative uses of their imaginations.

                But to get to those places in their imaginations, to tap into that pain or longing, they had to have been drawn from some sort of personal experience. I heard that Suzanne Collins got the idea for The Hunger Games while flipping through the channels and happening upon a segment on the news about the war and then switched to a reality show on another channel. Collins’ experiences in life no doubt shaped her ideas about both of these subjects and thus The Hunger Games were born. And Stephanie Meyers…well, it’s pretty clear that her personal feelings about religion and relationships came into play while writing about Bella and Edward.