My intention is to write novels and worm my way ever-so-craftily onto the New York Times Best Seller list.
I’ve been saying that for a really, really long time, and so far there is only one thing that has stood in my way. I guess it’s not a “thing,” really. It’s more a person or a being or, most accurately, a me. It’s me, guys. I’m the one standing in my way.
I’m standing in my own way.
It’s horrific to own that. It’s like, why can’t I just blame my career or my lack of financial fortitude or my parents for neglecting to instill a basic grasp of discipline? Way easier. It’s way, way, way easier to blame.
But the truth is that it’s me. I’m the only obstacle between me and my deepest desire. I’m literally a 5-foot, 4-inch, ravishingly beautiful (fine, whatever, moderately cute) roadblock halting forward progress on the highway to what God and/or the mighty universe intended for me.
Frankly, I’m sick of this rubbish. I’m tired of the words haunting me as I drive and shower and wash dishes and try to work. I’m sick to death of visualizing characters and scenes, telling my friends about them, blindly scribbling mostly illegible notes while driving on backroads to racetracks across the country, and dreaming of characters who are begging me to sit down, for the love of sweet baby Jesus, and bring them to life.
I have pages of notes. I have a Word doc of character development that would probably be sturdy enough to make an entire a movie.
It’s time to write the dang book, my friends. Alright, who’s in for this ride?
It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop. — Confucius