Do you know how many people out there want to write a book? Think about that number for a second, and then ask yourself how many of those people ever actually get that book written. Not many, making the very act of completing a book a huge accomplishment. I could ask about how many of those completed books ever get published, but that question has a decaying relevance with people publishing books online or self-publishing. People my own age think I am old-school for having a mini library in my apartment as it is. Will people even care about print books in a decade (*raises hand* I will! Down with e-readers! Sorry trees.)?
I am one of those dreamers, with ideas fluttering in her head and a burning desire to write a book. In fact, I want to get a book published. If Stephenie Meyer can do it, than so can I.
Except that I haven’t.
Life is busy. Between my full-time job, social life, love life and unexpected events, my time to sit and write is scarce. Writing is really a thankless profession anyway, and writing books is perhaps the most thankless. I have no delusions about writing leading to a life of fame and fortune. All I really want is the existence one person out there who cares for my writing as much as I care for that of my favorite authors. If one person out in the world proudly displays a book I wrote on their bookshelf, my dream is achieved.
I’m done with the excuses. When I was looking for a job after college, I cut my day in half, spending the morning (7am- 12pm) looking for jobs and the afternoon at work. The required me to get my lazy ass out of bed and walk the five or so blocks to the library while everyone else in my college town was still sleeping off their hangovers. This is something I did seven days a week. My drive to find a better job and avoid moving back in with my parents when my lease expired was such that I was desperate. My desire for writing needs to be the same to get that book written.
Before starting this blog, I started to pick up the hobbies that act as my muses for writing. Without my knowledge or consent, my hobbies faded from view during my transition into post-college life. These were the things that inspired me and, without them, my book ideas were lacking. The blog was the last piece of the puzzle. Having written something every day since I started, it has rekindled my passion for writing. I think I am ready for the last stage: sacrifice.
Friday nights are usually spent with my boyfriend, sometimes with other friends as well. At the end of the night, we either sleep at my place or his. When we wake up, we continue to hang out, even if it is as simple as playing video games or reading. While he encourages me to bring my laptop to his place and write while he plays games, the sound of shooting, bombing and cry of the dying that characterizes his war games is hugely distracting. Even when I read while he plays, I read at a slower pace.
The Friday nights can still happen, but I’m going to commit myself to spending most Friday nights alone in my own bed. This way, I can wake up bright an early, dragging my lazy ass out of bed with a desperation to write. The Starbucks just a few blocks from my apartment has an ideal atmosphere for writing (I would not say that about every Starbucks, but that one has the perfect kind of music, lighting, seating and view of the outside). There I will sit until noon, just like I did when I was looking for a job. If all I do is stare at a blank page on my computer, then so be it. Brainstorming is important too.
The last hurdle I have to overcome is my criticism. Writing a book, even if it’s a horrid book, still puts me ahead of every person who says they want to write a book and never does. This is my dream and my responsibility. Check in next Saturday; I may end my first writing session with a celebratory blog post.