I have wanted to be a writer all my life. I am always writing in some way or another. Mainly it’s in my head, narrating my each and every action, elaborating on my feelings, but I’m writing. My life is the story and I tell it to myself as I live it.
Eventually the story in my head wasn’t enough. I knew deep down I was a writer but to be a writer I needed to put words on a page; one after the other until they formed an entire thing. Last year I started doing just that. I started out with a rough idea that wouldn’t go away. It was just a flicker of a thing. It would keep me awake or occupy me on my commute to work. I started writing. I didn’t have a plan, I didn’t shape the thing, I just kept putting one word after another until it was finished.
I had the first draft of a book.
On the 24th of November when I typed ‘The End’ because I didn’t know what else to do to give me closure, I expected to feel euphoric but I didn’t. I felt agitated. I couldn’t relax. For months now I’d been occupied with this thing, this book, and now I didn’t have it any more. When it was in my head it was wrapped in possibilities. It could be perfect. It could be anything. On the page, I could see it was not perfect and it was this one particular thing instead of the many possibilities I had once wondered about.
A first draft is messy. It’s not meant to be perfect. You put the words into the first draft in order to have something to shape, to edit, to polish. Still, I expected to feel accomplished when I wrote the last word, or when I saved the document (backed up in triplicate), or when I told people, “hey, that book I was writing? I finished it.”
But it didn’t feel like that. As I put the draft away so that I can forget about it, let it grow blurry in my mind over Christmas and then return to it with a red pen, I only felt an overwhelming sense of what was left to do. This book needs tearing apart and putting back together again. It needs rounding and sharpening and tightening and tuning. The prospect of all this work is both alarming and exciting. I can’t wait to work this novel into something worth reading and at the same time I worry I am not worthy of the task.
Then there’s all the other ideas. Notebooks full of them. How I went 26 years nearly free of ideas for any creative projects is unfathomable, because now they crop up all the time. Most of them are faint glimmers that I transcribe into the ‘notes’ section of my phone and vow to go back to later. There are so many things I want to make – books, scripts, poems, blog posts, that often I am frozen by the overwhelming massiveness of it all. When will I have the time? Will I be good enough?
The answer is: you make the time, you make yourself good enough.