I'm back, as you can probably tell by now, and have returned with an ember of passion. Not love, but passion; for an issue that has been burning bright in my mind since the first time I laid my pen upon your pages.
In the beginning I resolved to comment more, to read more, to enjoy more. It was a selfish endeavour.
Later, I shared the joy that comments could bring to other authors, to new addition to the community in specific.
And now I speak out as the writer, the receptacle of these words and praises. I maintain that it is always heart-warming to find that someone else has enjoyed your work, that some apparent stranger has something good to say about you.
But it grows stagnant, repetitive.
In regards to my own writing, what did you love about it? What parts captured your attention? Was it a word or a phrase that leapt from the page into your conscious mind? Was it an image held high, weaving through the writing? Was it just simply a good premise, showing much promise? What? Tell me, I wish to know...
That way, I can continue.
I feel the same way about the dotings left behind on other authors' works. Though I might feel the same way about a chapter, branch, or story, it could be for different reasons. I always read the comments on whatever I might be reading, as they give me something to look for, something to make me see the writing from a different perspective.
So, too, if I disagree with your review. It is impossible to change viewpoints when all there is to run with is a simple round of applause. That tells me nothing. It doesn't make any attempt to show me what I might be missing, to illuminate the importance of the writing.
I feel that I'm babbling on now, Diary, and writing in a fit that, while once was a mere ember, is slowly turning the room into an oven. It could very well be the sun shining through the glass doors and windows, but I prefer to believe in the power of metaphor.