I’m trying to write a book. Partly because I am a journalist and thus already a writer, partly because people in my life have told me I can and partly because the idea of writing a book is so appealing. To have printed in ink and paper 300+ pages of words I have written (mostly) on my own would feel like such an achievement.
I’ve never really tried before. I don’t have a story waiting to be told or the pull of some unknown force to reach inside me and write about whatever is in my heart. To write is to question who you are and what you have to say. And I always thought I didn’t have much of anything to say. No big lesson or nugget of wisdom to impart on people through my own writing.
But in the end that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. To open a blank Word doc, put on some bad pop music and see if anything comes pouring out.
And something has. Fifty pages of something. It’s a young adult fantasy novel about a world set in a made up Middle Age-esque time period. There’s some magic, evil monsters and knights. Female knights and male knights and some male knights who think women should not be fighting. But, fight the women do. I have two narrators, a man and woman. A gay character and more. To find the time to sit a write has become a problem. Writers love to procrastinate, and I am no exception. I’m hoping to have a complete manuscript by the summer, and am hoping my lack of willpower for writing is due to this unending winter. Hopefully warmer weather will inspire me to write even more often than I do.