Spirit of the River

I will only write a short one today, as I am still feeling quite sick, and need to use my energy for working on my jobs. Part of my work is translating books, sometimes "real" books, sometimes e-books. All of them (and most of the books I read) have dedications. I am also writing a book, but when it comes to dedications, it's always a page that bothers me a little, and to be honest, a page that makes me sad. I read how other people can dedicate their books to partners, friends, their family and so on, and then wonder who I would dedicate my book to. Michael Jackson, because he was more of a friend to me than anybody else? Patrick Stewart, because I learned more from him than from my own father who just hated me and always had to remind me that I was just an accident? Lucy Lawless, because she helped me a lot even though I never got to talk to her? Kate Mulgrew, because I wanted to have a mother like her? Kenny Wizz, because he gave me hope? Tolkien, because he insp...

This will not be the most positive entry - and it will not be about the general issues a writer has when writing. It is not about how to write, when to write, and how to deal with writer's block (there is no such thing anyway, it's just a dumb excuse for not turning up on the page). This is about a problem I am have with writing at the moment. And as there are thousands of other writers out there, if not millions, then I am sure that some other writers will also be able to identify with what I am writing about in this post. Other writers - the happy, chirpy sort with not a care in the world - will not understand it at all. The question is: How do you create something beautiful if you have never witnessed it yourself? We all know that works of literature often contain the most beautiful stories, the most beautiful worlds, wonderful characters, beautiful relationships, true friendships, loyalty, and above all: hope that there is something good in the world. Something wort...