A very good friend of mine has insisted that, in the midst of my insomnia laden evenings, I should consider working on my novel. I’ve spoken with her on several occasions about writing this particular novel. It has been on my mind for years, and I’m feeling a need to either get started on it or let the idea go.
My book of poetry is complete; I know that I can complete a project if I put my mind to it. Why haven’t I?
This evening, I read through the rough draft outline that I wrote two years ago. It was sixty pages long and, to tell you the truth, I was sad to see that I’d just let it go and done nothing with it. How sad that we take our dreams and we compartmentalize them in a way that they never come to fruition.
In some respects, it’s a necessity. We live and we grow older and we realize that some of our perceptions on life and the ways we intended to live it were wrong. We abandon one dream and create another. We work toward one thing while leaving another behind. That’s the way life is supposed to work.
I have dreams and goals for myself, don’t get me wrong. But… I’m beginning to wonder if I’m cut out for the whole writing thing. I’m sad to say that, at my best, I’m a pretty mediocre writer. Perhaps one in a hundred pieces of my writing have hit that proverbial “home run”, and even then… who’s to say if my point has been communicated effectively and if the writing has the same emotional impact that I’ve intended.
My Uncle Mitch, who is one of the greatest writers I’ve ever known (and smartest), has said that he feels my writing could change lives. I know he means it, because he’s also not afraid to tell me when he thinks I’m being disengenuous to my craft. He’ll tell me exactly where he thinks I’m screwing up and if a piece of writing is bad. That’s the relationship we have, and I’m eternally grateful for it.
Had it not been for him, I wouldn’t have gotten as far as I have. I’ve always said he is my mentor, and I still feel the same. He says that now we’re more colleagues than anything, and I try to view our relationship that way. It’s tough, though.
I can concede that I’ve written some great poems, some great stories, and I’ve brought my audience to laughter and tears. But writing a novel is an enormous undertaking, one of discipline and dedication, and I’m just not sure if I can make it the priority it once was. I still write to process who I am, how I’m feeling about my life, and dealing with the emotions that I do; my soul is scribbled out on countless pieces of paper and typed up in public posts on this blog. For particularly sensitive subjects, I post them privately (non-world readable) on this blog.
The novel sits on my hard drive, and I can’t help but feel like it should be in more capable hands. Certainly not mine. It’s pure potential, pure innocence and untainted by the world, and I feel like protecting it like my unborn child. Even from myself.