I don’t have blind faith in myself. I’ve failed and changed course far too many times for that. But I have to believe, have to assume, that I am going to make it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even try.
I have been given a lot of advice.
And while a great deal of it has been good (and, naturally, a great deal has been truly terrible as well,) nothing has yet come to claim the crown as these simple words from my grandfather.
What do I do when I’m not writing? The things that will inspire me. The things that make me happy.
The truth is, my imagination is often bigger than my gut. I’d like to think that if I ever got dropped into a situation, I’d take a deep breath and agree to some really cool things, but there’s a lot I know I’ll never get the opportunity to do.
And a lot I plan to do anyway.
I do not have a half-naked Greek Goddess of muse and inspiration lying across my bed. Inspiration doesn’t work like that.
Because no matter what we write, we must give some of ourselves over the story, to the writing, to the characters, the sacrifice every writer must make to get it right.
Writing a book does not happen on the day of the release, but rather, over the course of so, so many hours and so many opportunities to give up.
And I consider that my greatest accomplishment.
I cannot deny that it makes me feel safe, connected and secure. And not just because I can call or navigate my way out of nearly any situation. Nope, because I always have a journal and I always have a book.
One of the most exciting parts of finishing that novel is getting to write those two, little, lovely, wonderful words at the bottom of the last page.
Well, this is it. This is the part of being a writer that sucks so much worse than the movies show. This part hurts.