In my first apartment, I journaled in bed, each morning, before I had my coffee
and the thoughts were haphazard, flowing onto the page like foggy dreams.
Before that, I was writing a novel that would never end
and I would go to the city library after work, and try to write 1,000 words. After 250,000
the novel was a disconnected, rambling, stream of consciousness.
After that, I discovered a writing group, but nobody there had been published, and they were all over-weight working professionals, above the age of 50.
I went home, and watched a documentary on Charles Bukowski, which gave me inspiration, but nobody I talked to understood why he gave me hope—he wrote about suicide, death, and whores.
“You’re nothing like him,” my friend said.
“I don’t know…”
Belief is important for persistence, but if not belief, you must really want to do it.
The problem is, after we start to do something for several years, we think about it differently.
“Why can’t I write like Stephen King?”
But I tried to read one of his novels, once—and I couldn’t even read it.
The biggest mistake is to think we are somebody else.
There are stories we like to tell, and there are those stories we need to tell— all the writing we do, before we get to our NEED, is worth it, because we can, when we NEED to.
I’ve talked to many people who all have a novel they would like to write, but when they sit down to do it, they can’t.
Being able to do it, and actually doing it, is what writing is all about.
So, write every day, and your novel will take care of itself.