Writing a book is hard work. A task designed for a person with focus of steel. Focus that my poor, slightly frazzled brain has trouble with. Right now, I’m in the process of “writing” my first novel. Mostly, I don’t get a great deal of writing done, however, I do find myself doing an immense amount of staring at a blank page. I’ll have an idea, write a sentence or two that I will automatically label as “crap,” or “ewww,” or sometimes I even get a “wow, that is horrible” from myself. As I hastily punch the back button on my computer’s keyboard, I wonder how I will ever be able to create a world of words, a work that is ready to take readers to an alternate reality in which they can always find a refuge.
This is what a book is to me: a refuge. A home away from home. I’ve fought demons, witnessed the demise of a great and powerful being. I’ve visited with elves, ridden a dragon, gone to a school of magic, and traveled the world. The world of the page often feels more like home than my home could ever be. From the time I was a young child I have always loved to read. I’ve spent many a night laying in bed, caught up in the moments of my current favorite reads. It all began when I was younger.
In middle school, I spent more time trying to please others and be popular ( I know, how popular can you really be in middle school?) because that is what everyone else expected me to do. I went to a small private Christian school from Kindergarten until the day that I graduated from high school. Being with the same people, having the same teachers watch you grow up is nice, but it also limits you. I was always the over achiever and I was always expected to be the over achiever. When I was in the seventh grade my life took a slight turn and I went into a rebellious stage that I’m still not quite out of. For me, this is when writing really began to stick with me, when it really became important to me.
I started out writing teen angst poetry that was more a rant about how my life was so sucky (even though looking back, my life was anything but sucky, try blessed). Most of my friends had a little bit of trouble with the new me; more quiet and pensive, still driven, but definitely different. By the time I was in high school, I was ski pping the classes I didn’t like and sneaking out onto the balcony in the gym to write. I wrote everything, even though at that time I thought I was definitely a poet. I experimented and read different genres. I read books like Harry Potter even though they weren’t allowed. (I was a true rebel, huh?)
As I got closer to graduating, I knew that literature and writing were my passions, and that is one thing that has not, and probably never will change about me. I have writer’s block, but I’m working through it, just like any normal (are there normal writers?) writer would do. I have a daily battle with myself because so many different things tempt and distract me. I’m fighting though. Every day the battle is becoming more and more one sided. I am finding my voice. I am searching for the key to unlock all the creativity that I have inside of me. And guess what? I’m getting closer every day.
This is the goal I have for what I write, and because my expectations are so high, I realize how difficult it will be for me to actually write something I will approve of in the beginning. I’m praying that eventually I will be moved by some god of focus so that I may be able to get somewhere with novel number 1.