I started writing a book last night. This is an aspect of my life that I, admittedly, don’t talk about often. I’m pretty all over the place with my writing. I start things that I never finish, I have ideas for worlds and characters, but no plot to give them.
My biggest thing is developing characters, which I believe I do quite well. The majority of the time I spend figuring out the people in my head, determining what has made them who they are and what might change them in the future. Perhaps this is part of the reason why my Bachelors is in Psychology.
I’ve been writing since I was six. But I’ve never finished anything, with perhaps the small exception of a short story I wrote for a creative writing class in college. I can’t tell you the pain in the arse it is to bring my work from one place to another when I move because I’m sure many of you understand–whether it’s books you’re carting around, or massive boxes full of paper. I never quite managed to convert everything to fit solely on the computer and frankly I prefer editing by hand.
I genuinely feel, though, that the story I started writing last night has the potential to make it past all of my previous roadblocks, to persevere in spite of my uncannily proficient ability to procrastinate and inability to fill in the gaps between the scenes I’ve written. I feel really good about this one.
And I realize that this post is kind of random, it doesn’t really allude to much in part because I protect my writing as though the words and ideas are my children. I share it very rarely, only to those I know well and trust explicitly. But there’s a piece to this moment that I just wanted to share because it’s the first time in years that I’ve felt truly confident that I have something people might believe is worth reading.