I believe I’d written about this some time ago. About my greatest fear as a writer. The realization came after a friend told me how, while she was fixing her bookshelf, skimmed over several books from a series she painstakingly saved up for and tried to complete when she was much younger. She said after rereading some of the stories, she experienced what could only be described as a WTF moment: WTF was I thinking that time that I actually liked this story?
Oh, dear.
Those words, in turn, triggered something in my brain and defined the worst fear I (or maybe any other writer) could ever experience – a loyal reader’s WTF moment, and subsequent desire to get rid of the books.
So, I said (something like) I wasn’t afraid of running out of ideas. I wasn’t afraid of not becoming a bestselling author. I wasn’t afraid of not having bajillions of fans. I would understand no longer being able to fully relate with a story because they’d outgrown the trope. But please, not a WTF moment.
What I wanted then, what I had come to wish for was simple: If and when, in the future, any one of my readers go back and reread (or recall) any of my old titles, I wish with all my heart that it would be with fond recollection of kilig moments.
And waking up to this post on Twitter was a wish granted.
My very first published novel in 2003 was an amateur’s attempt at writing a story and yet it was picked up and loved, and loved throughout time.
Thanks, April! You made my day. Oh, and I’m really sorry (#notsorry) I broke your heart and made you cry. (“,)
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