Confession

   I write fantasy.
   I love writing.  I think I actually love creating.  If I was a better artist, I would paint my worlds, and my desire to write would diminish.  I love describing the atmosphere, the surroundings, the set and stage of the drama being performed.  I would trace emotions into the faces and bodies, telling a story with my brush strokes.
   But there is no room for growth in a painting.  Even in a series of paintings, it leaves the mind wondering what happened in between.  What words transpired to bring these two beings together, or what has happened to make the forest grow dark?  I love the progression of the stories and characters, even if I don't know exactly where it will go.
   If I love writing so much, why do I not tell anyone?  
   I'm not sure why I am so averse to sharing.  I can be with other people who write fantasy, listening to them talking about their books, and I will never say a word of mine.
   Maybe it's because I've never finished any of my work.  The book I'm working on with my best friend is sitting at roughly 152,500 words and isn't even a third of the way done.  Or the book I am writing with my cousin on, might or might not ever be finished.
   Maybe it's because I don't want other people to read it, thinking they'll judge me by the mistakes in the grammar and plot, not to mention the amount of magic or myth that may be in woven into the book.
   Whatever the case may be, I don't intend to stop writing fantasy, but I don't plan on sharing any of it either.    At least not until it's finished, which will be quite some time.