{on writing}

I’m sure I’ve written something like this before, but I can’t find it and I have too many thoughts swimming around in my head to ignore it now.

{via}

She said yes to the date because he drank his coffee black and drove a Honda. His hairline was also starting to recede, which was a good thing. It meant that he would probably be bald by the time he was fifty.

It’s taken me three years to finally be confident in my first paragraph. My first paragraph. Does that mean it’s going to take me a million more to get through the rest of the book? But then…

I know that’s true {Toni Morrison = one smart lady} because I’ve been trying to find that perfect book. I’ve been looking up books that have a similar plot to mine, and I’m just never satisfied. I keep going back to my own book, thinking about it before I go to bed or driving in the car or listening to music. My perfect book hasn’t been written yet.

You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to quit; how desperate I am to just read my book and not write it.

Writing is not easy.

And sometimes, it’s no fun at all.

But I’m too picky to quit. I’m strung too tight. I believe in myself too much to quit.

I’m over halfway there. Forty thousand words in. How can I quit now? My main character feels like my sister. I know her. I know all the characters: what they look like, their favorite drink, what size shoe they wear, for goodness sakes. How can I give up now?

I guess it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of my book. I’m really not writing it for anyone else. I’m writing my book. The one that I want to read.

I guess that’s what makes me a writer. A real writer.

That, and I have to be slightly inebriated to write. I’m pretty sure that’s some type of requirement.