Back in the days of pigtails and knee socks, my grandmother handed me a few sheets of paper or even, during desperate times, a paper plate. She told me to write a story.
I now realize little me writing a story for twenty minutes was so much better than little me talking for twenty minutes. Nonstop.
My family is smarter than they first appear.
Like most children, I dreamed up crazy professions for adulthood.
My doctor phase didn’t last long. I realized I could self-diagnose without twenty years of school. My private investigator phase lasted a little longer. It peaked when after declaring the corner house on my street a money laundering hotspot, the police swarmed and knocked down their doors. I deserved a junior citizen’s medal of spying honor, even if they laundered drugs instead of money.
By the time I packed my bags and headed to college, I wanted to write for a newspaper. I doubted my ability to write anything as long as a book, but surely I could scribble out a single page story. After all, reporting is merely recounting facts. I thought.
Two years into a Commercial Writing major, I not only doubted my ability to write a one page article, but I doubted my ability to write my name and address. I wasn’t failing, but none of my teachers loved my writing
I am average.
Since average writers don’t get paid, I changed my major to straight English. Sadly my faculty adviser still lacked confidence in my ability, but I was half-way through the tunnel. Light shone through the other side. My father would kill me if I quit.
I still wanted to write, but fear stopped me.
Then I began blogging. After telling a few stories, I forgot my teachers only gave me B’s. I wrote. You laughed. You encouraged me in the comments, and I wrote some more.
Blogging is great, but my dream is to see a book with my name on the spine sitting on a shelf in Barnes & Noble.
I want that book.
I know two things for certain – 1.) I must write in my voice. The voice I found by blogging. 2.) I must write what I know, but more importantly what I love.
Those rules may sound good, but they are vague, idealistic, and they lack inspiration.
I’ve sorta known what I want, but I didn’t know how to get it, and more importantly, how to get it on paper.
I’ve been reading Stephen King’s book, On Writing. Whether you love or hate Stephen King makes no difference, the man knows how to write. Well. On Writing isn’t a novel, but a book on the craft of writing.
In short, I’m inspired. I know what I want to write. I am writing.
I’m tempted to share some snippets with you, but are sneak peeks taboo?
What do you think?
Either way, I am sharing my inspiration today.
If you want to do something, do it. Ignore the voices saying you can’t or you’re not good enough. Don’t worry about failure. That may or may not come You’ll never find out unless you try. I don’t even think success or failure is as important as trying and actually completing the task.
If it’s running a marathon, run.
If you want to write a book, write.
If you want to create original art, paint.
Or sew. Or draw. Or photograph.
Just get it done.
I am writing. When I am eighty, I want to give my grandchildren a book with my name on the spine. If they don’t read it until after I’m dead, who cares! If nobody likes it, their loss. If it never gets published, I’ll have it bound myself and I’ll get an extra copy to give to my grandkids.
If it does get published, I’ll send a copy to my faculty advisor from college.
What’s important is that I write.