I want to be a writer. I love to write, and it’s what I want to do for the rest of my life.
When I was in 5th grade, my teacher, Mrs. Frost, challenged me to write a children’s book for the kindergarten students at our school. I accepted the challenge. The story was called “Catnapped” and it was about a cat that gets lost and his adventures trying to get home. Even though I didn’t finish the story that school year, I was hooked.
Throughout my junior high years I kept writing. I can remember staying up way later than I should have because the ideas were just flowing and I didn’t want to lose anything. Before I graduated from high school I had written the better part of 2 novels, though I didn’t actually finish either one. I still have the handwritten pages of both manuscripts in a box in my storage unit. Honestly, I don’t know that I’m brave enough to dig them out and look over them. I’m concerned that I might be embarrassed for my teenage self. Maybe one day I will, but I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.
Once I entered college, life became much more hectic and my recreational writing ground to a halt. There were so many academic papers to be written that I just didn’t make the time to write for fun anymore. Unfortunately, once you stop writing creatively, the ideas begin to dry up as well. Then one day you sit down to write and you realize that you don’t know where to start, so you don’t.
Over the years, I’ve had a few ideas surface, but I haven’t mustered the energy or motivation or whatever else is needed to actually sit down and begin fleshing them out. Maybe I was worried that I would again find myself writing into the wee hours of the morning for fear of stifling the inspiration. I’ve come to very much value my hours of sleep, and honestly I don’t function well at all when I’m sleep-deprived. Or maybe that’s just an excuse to keep me from admitting that I’m a little scared of what will happen if I really commit to writing. If I never try to pursue a career as a writer, then there’s no danger of failing at it. If you don’t write, then you don’t have anything to submit for publication, and consequently you have no chance of someone criticizing your writing. Of course, you also have no chance of ever becoming a writer, which poses a problem for someone who claims to want to be a writer.
So, in August of last year, I committed to completing a novel. An idea for one had been bouncing around in my head for awhile, so I decided to get to it. I’ve been fairly diligent working on it over the last few months, and at this point I’d say I’m close to halfway done. I was hoping to have it finished by the end of this school year, but that’s really just a self-imposed deadline. The last couple of weeks, though, I’ve been slightly neglectful. It hasn’t really been an issue of time. I think it’s been more a question of purpose. I’ve been plagued by questions and doubts about whether or not anyone will ever want to read it, and whether or not I’m any good at all at this thing that I love to do, and what are the odds that this will ever get published. It’s pretty difficult to continue working on a piece under those conditions, so I’ve just been avoiding it altogether.
Last weekend I went to a workshop about getting published. I learned so much helpful information. Obviously I’m nowhere close to pursuing a publishing path since the book isn’t even half finished. The information presented was incredibly helpful, though, and I’m sure it will be an invaluable resource once I am ready to try and start that process. I think the most valuable thing I took away from the workshop was a renewed energy for writing. I’ve decided to put the novel aside for a little while and focus on some elements of technique – character development, plot, etc – and to just let myself write random bits and pieces (like a blog!) to help keep the creative juices flowing.
The primary conclusion that I’ve reached this weekend is that I just need to write. I don’t need to put all of my hopes into this one novel and chase it and cling to it as if it’s the last chicken wing at an all-you-can-eat buffet. I need to let myself enjoy writing again. I need to remember how it felt to write simply for the sake of creating stories and characters, the way it was before research papers and all the other academic assignments made it something stressful.
Most importantly, though, I need to remember that I am a writer, so I just need to write.
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