I’m going to tell you a secret.
I, uh… I want to write a book. A story.
A few months ago I wrote this piece of prose that’s been rattling in my brain ever since and it’s like there’s something else, there’s more to it. And I’m shaky hands scared at even admitting out loud that this is what I’m planning on doing because oh man, I just don’t even know where to start.
Steve asked me the worst that could happen. I looked at him amazed. How about not being able to do it, for one? Or writing something I thought was good and being rejected by every single publisher? And that’s rejection at its most intimate level, that’s ultimately a rejection of me. I mean, what do I know about character development and what if the words don’t come and what if the thing I believe I’m actually naturally good at doesn’t exist? What if I can’t? What if it’s not good?
I’ve spent weeks thinking about this character, this woman (as of yet unnamed). And, well, something’s there. Pieces and flicks of a story. And so, I address the biggest fear first: What if I can’t do it? Well, I don’t really think that will be the case. At the very least, I can write a short story. But then: Being rejected by every single publisher. Of course I’d like what I write to be published, but ultimately, that’s not my goal.
Part of me hadn’t planned on writing about this, because I thought maybe the fewer people who knew, the better. But since there’s only about seven people who read this, and only a few I know in real life, I figured it would be ok. I won’t share any of the story here, though.
So. It might take ten damn years, but uh, wish me luck?