It’s turning out to be one of those bleak and rainy days, a great day for reflecting. I was thinking about a writer’s voice, or more importantly, MY writing voice. I am in awe of writer’s who can take their readers into the worlds they have created inside of their heads. The words may have been written yesterday, or two hundred years ago, and I can picture the scene. I can see the character’s faces. I am not only transported in time, but I am given a peak into another person’s inner world. Not so many years ago, I thought little or nothing of this phenomenon. I either liked a story or I didn’t. I never thought of the writer behind the words, pouring out their inner thoughts and feelings, unsure of what the outcome might be. I never considered that the person telling the story might have been full of self-doubt. I imagine this is why it’s so important to write for one’s own pleasure, as there will always be those who will criticize the work a writer has put forth. When I write, my voice is my own. It is mine and it is unique as I am. That said, I wonder who I will be compared to, as all writers seemed to get flopped into categories, like discount shoes piled into boxes and bins. I wonder how my work will be perceived. I write vampire stories. I am not writing the “Great American Novel.” I have been reading a lot of articles about readers criticizing writers and their stories. I have to wonder if these readers have taken the time to try writing something themselves? The work might turn out to be dribble, but the dribble still had to come out of someone else’s head.