Photo courtesy of Riccardo Mion from unsplash.com
The beginning, the end, and everything in between. A journey of sorts. Creation defined as it unravels. As each little block clicks together to form something whole, something wonderful.
A book. Not just any book, mind you. My book.
The story of Emma.
A chronicle of writing her story from start to finish and, God willing, to publication. I’m committing right here, in this public forum, to complete this book and I want you on this journey with me.
We’ll interact, even collaborate I hope, as I want this to be our achievement, not mine alone.
Is achievement to presumptuous? God, I hope not. That’s not my intent. My goal is confidence. Perseverance. To stay positive. I want to write, to publish, and to succeed. For those reading this who have been where I am, you understand. You know the uphill climb. How two steps forward can equal four steps back. How quickly confidence can go right in the shitter.
So why on earth would I do something like this? Great question.
Here is my great answer…
I’ve endeavored to be a writer my whole life. It’s my passion, my dream, and I’m not bullshitting around here when I say writing affects me on every level. Mood. Confidence. Happiness. Nothing is untouched by its influence. For years I’ve dreamed of nothing else but being a writer, a real writer, one who publishes books and receives royalty checks and has to contact his agent before making any decisive career moves. One who joins Stephen King on talks shows and who makes dedications to agents, editors, and obscure family members for my endearing success. One who gets recognized in restaurants as a nervous fan approaches me and asks if I’m that guy who wrote some book he’d read. And as I modestly nod and tell him that yes, in fact, I am that guy, I sign a copy of the book he’s holding.
Yes, by God! That’s me!
If only it were that easy. If only they knew. How bad it hurts when we learn through mountains of rejections, we’re not as good as we thought. Form letter after form letter destroys our hopes, our dreams, and before you know it, it’s years later and we’re no closer to being a writer than a squirrel going to the moon.
I throw my hands up and say, “What’s the point of all this?” No one seems to believe in this stupid dream but me.
I’ve gone so far as deciding I’m never writing again. It’s just a distraction, a fool’s errand. And I felt better afterward. My mind cleared. I focused on my day job. Success mounted. All was good.
For about a week, it was good.
Then, while staring out a high-rise window in downtown Dallas, I thought, what if a huge orange haze materialized on the horizon and no one knew what it was. And off I went again, typing to beat hell. Telling the story.
And then it hit me. Writing isn’t something that I do; it’s something that I am.
I’ve read a stack of books on writing and you know what they all have in common? They were all written after the fact; after success had been achieved, after their books were published - after they’d taken my chair at the big people table and left me sitting with the kids.
What about describing how to write a book during the process? That’s what I’m going to do.
Writers are quirky. One of my quirks - if I let anyone read a portion of any book I’m writing before I’ve finished it, the project dies. I’ve also learned that if I tell someone about it before it’s finished, the project often dies (though not every time). So I’m not going to do either for this one. No one knows – not even those closest to me. It’s just Novel X.
So what makes this book I’m writing so special that I’d start a blog to chronicle its creation?
Simply put; I have never been more on fire for an idea.
I have no idea if this book is the book that will put me on the map, but I can say with all honesty, it is the story that I’ve most passionately wanted to tell. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned through the rejections, through the pain, it is that none of that wanting-to-be-a-writer shit matters with Novel X.
It’s the story. It cannot fail because if the story is told, then creation succeeds. It is not my story, it is Emma’s story. I’m just writing what I see.
One day, you’ll meet Emma and I hope you’ll love her as I’ve loved her. This will make sense eventually.
My friends, Novel X is not a book… it is the promise of a book. A promise I’m making to you, reader of my rhetoric and believer in my path.
Novel X is not the destination, it is the journey.