Day 347 in my writing career.
I began this whole writing thing nearly a year ago. I showed a friend a short story I’d written and she said, “This is really good! So why don’t you make it a book?”
I laughed. “A book? I don’t have time to write a book!”
She smiled and shook her head. “Hun, you sit at the computer and clean your house. What do you mean you don’t have time?”
For three days, I pondered her statement. I really did have time to write a book, but holy cow…a book? That’s a ton of work and I’m not creative or overly intelligent. I’m just me. Writers are really smart people! Aren’t they?
On the fourth day, I sat down with my two-page short story and decided to give it a whirl. It was just one day after all, what could it hurt to try? I re-read what I’d written and suddenly words poured out of me. I’m talking tons of words. Those two pages became an entire chapter that day. When the kids got home from school, I put it up and did my normal after school thing with them.
All that night I had an intense feeling of satisfaction. My laundry didn’t get washed that day, and the living room needed vacuumed, but I felt like I’d really accomplished something.
The next morning I woke up at 5:30 like usual. (I know it’s an ungodly time, but my body is just used to it.) I made my coffee, checked my emails, read my horoscope, and opened my story. The kids almost missed the buss because I lost track of time and forgot to wake them up. After I got them off to school, I went at it again and wrote all day.
That was all it took, two exquisite days of bliss. I was completely hooked. I didn’t know if it was any good at all, but I couldn’t stop. It was my drug of choice. I worked like that everyday. Some days I’d write until nearly midnight. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want too! (Can you say obsession?) In January, I finished. I sat here typing out those last few paragraphs and cried like a baby. It was over. I had given birth to a thing that had taken on a life of its own.
And that was when the really hard part began…