“What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn’t happen much, though.” — J.D. Salinger
The Writer remembers the first time he read Dune by Frank Herbert. How he wanted to write something just as good. He spent a lot of time wishing he had written that novel, that he had come up with those ideas, that the universe invented by Herbert had belong to him instead.
He then proceeded to read other novels, other stories that made him wish he had written them into existence instead of their authors.
The stories he read had been written by people who had known him. Or so it seemed. People who had been through the same experiences, and used words so eloquently to express what resided in his soul.
But isn’t that what stories are all about? Isn’t that why we invented words?
So we can understand that there are others who feel the same way we do? That we are not alone? That our sorrows and joys have been experienced by someone else?