As my body begs for sleep and my mind fights to stay awake in order to get some writing done, a sudden thought occurred to me. Now, it could be completely bogus, or it could be just my twisted, tired mind warping my opinions into false fact once again. Either way, here it is, and if you don’t agree, then I won’t hold it against you, but perhaps it will give you something to think about: Writing the perfect book is all about putting yourself there.
That would be me last night, at 12:00 am, after many nights of 12:00 ams, writing frantically because I was stuck in a scene that demanded to be lived out, not in the morning, not four hours earlier at an appropriate time, but right then and there. So I lived it out, in my head as my fingers converted the images into words, words that someone could one day read. Words that I could go over later and tweak until they reflected that perfect image in my head. You see, it isn’t about having the right plot or that perfect line (though I must admit, many a book can boast about these two characteristics) ; No, it’s about putting yourself, and your reader, there.
Those of you who write know what I’m talking about, and those of you who read and find that one book, or that one author who can put you there, know exactly what I mean. A novelist can use a plethora of ornate words and phrases (heck, I just did it); they can make up interesting characters with deep personalities and heart-wrenching histories. A writer can even create the concept of a wonderful world filled with new ideas and life forms, but if they cannot create the there factor, then as a reader (at least in my case), I become another barnacle clinging to the hull of a ship, reaching out for the nutrients that may come my way, but never truly discovering the wondrous depths of the sea. I become another meteor, streaking across the black heavens of night, lasting a few moments and maybe leaving a faint aftermath of light, but only just enough to pique the imagination of those viewing me from below, never lasting long enough for the goose bumps to spread all the way to the toes and back.
When I read a story, I want to be captivated; I want to be torn from my chair or my bed and thrown to the muddy road where the next epic is about to begin. I have no wish to hover above and watch from afar (that is what motion pictures are for). I want to become part of the story, to hold the hero when he is lost in sorrow, to taste the bread pulled fresh from the oven, to hear the clash of swords and the wail of the wind through the sails of a storm-tossed ship. I want to feel the bite of winter and the smooth feathers of a falcon.
When I write a story, I have to be there. I cannot tell the reader what is happening unless I’m there to witness it; every last color on the heroine’s dress, every twinge and hurt experienced during a fight, the sticky taste of wild honey found on the trail, the sulfuric smell of a bog too long without rain . . . reading should be an escape and writing should be the vessel that provides the transportation. I only hope that the stories I write do for my readers what they do for me: sweep you away into a place only found on the pages you read and projected in great clarity in that place in your imagination where anything is possible. So here’s to the there, where ever there happens to be, and here’s to the authors who provide the way in.
-J.E. Johnson
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My garden is not the most sophisticated of horticultural pursuits, and to say so would be laughable. Once the sanctuary of my father’s cacti and charming river rock collection, it now houses my many attempts, successes and in-betweens of what gardening skill I have, or rather, lack thereof. Regardless of its rather thrown-together charm, I find great comfort in my own personal Eden. Amidst the half-finished patio that tapers off into the detritus-littered sand that myself and the weeds battle over, there is a purpose. Behind the old bath tub and toilet set crammed with overflowing water and orange mints, there lies reason. Beyond the broken-brick pathway and plastic bistro set where I now type, there rests meaning. For this is more than just a garden, it is a sanctuary, to me and to the things I try to grow and nurture here. From the lime tree that freezes every year, yet always manages to come back, to the pacific tree frogs (now beginning their chorus), who make the perilous climb up the raised concrete sink to bring their children to life each spring, such wonders can be discovered here. 
. Until then, good evening and happy reading!
