It is with a sense of fulfillment but incredible sadness that I started and finished the 7th part of the Harry Potter series today. Years, 10 to be exact, have gone into knowing these characters, learning to love them and their desires/weaknesses/pains/problems, so it is tantamount to saying a final farewell to a very dear friend. Closing the end cover to the epic novel, I couldn’t help but muse on my own writing. Will I ever achieve anywhere near the dedication to detail and understanding of character that J.K. has shown? What’s the point of writing if it will never be masterpiece material? Is my creativity even enough?
Reading through the novels, I cried, laughed on most pages with the quick wit, cared for the characters as real people and knew them well. Did I have the ability to show such depth in my pieces? It’s a hard pill to swallow as a writer to write, then read others’ writings and know that yours doesn’t compare in the slightest.
It did spark the desire in me to grow, to spin out creativity, to pay more attention to detail. All may not be lost. But I can’t help feeling completely frazzled and like I am trying to take on something of gargantuan proportions.
The thing about living in the year 2007 and writing is that nothing seems unique anymore. There are basically no ideas that I can come up with that haven’t been done before, done well, and done to death to become a cliché. As if it isn’t already tough enough to be a creative good writer, now there is the fact that nothing you write will be a fresh idea.
This series and other writings I have read do give me the notion to be a better writer, but is there indeed anything left to write?