When I was a little girl and my dad would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always had two answers: An actress and a writer.
I was convinced I could do both. And well.
In grade school I won all the writing awards. I still remember being so proud of a story contest my 7th grade class had where our names were removed from our submissions and the class voted on the best one without knowing who had written what.
Mine was by far the longest (real shocker there) and I was convinced for that fact alone that it wouldn’t win.
But then… it did. Some dramatic tale about a pre-teen who had a falling out with her group of friends and had to face their torment until the day her brother died of cancer.
Morbid, right?
I may or may not have been in the middle of a fight with my circle of friends at the time.
It’s also possible I was wishing cancer upon my brother.
One can’t really be sure.
I was 12 years old after all.
But the point is, there were a lot of things like that. The district wide poetry contest I swept. The first time a magazine published something I had written, and my grandma made me give her the $10 check they sent me so that she could frame it. The teachers who were constantly sending notes home to rave about my creative writing. The time when, upon graduating from 8th grade, I composed a 30 page manifesto for all my friends detailing our friendships from early childhood.
I named it “Friends Forever” and presented it to everyone with all kinds of flourish.
This was something I was good at though. One of the few things that came naturally to me from a young age.
The acting was always there as well. I was involved in all the plays in high school, and nabbed a couple leads for myself before being named most likely to be famous my senior year.
But that was something that quickly faded away once I started college. I had loved acting, but the truth was – I had no interest in being famous.
I wanted kids and a family someday. Not a decade or more of trying to “break-in” to a difficult business, followed by a lifetime of being hounded by the paparazzi and marrying men bound to cheat on me in the end.
Because let’s face it; I was pretty sure I was going to make it. Confident in the future in a way that only a teenager could be.
So yeah, the acting became a dream of the past.
But the writing… well the writing stayed.
And I still dreamed of one day having my name on a published book.
Of making a career out of putting words on paper.
I never had quite as much confidence in this though. I knew I loved writing, and that I could pound out 2000 words on just about any subject in my sleep, but… I wasn’t sure I had what it would take to really make that dream a reality.
And then I started writing this blog. If only because I needed a place to get out all my thoughts and feelings regarding infertility.
And it was safe. Not nearly as scary. Because there is instant gratification that comes from writing a blog post and knowing immediately whether or not it has been well received.
A far cry from committing up to a year of one’s life to completing a book, only to have it go nowhere.
I have honestly had nightmares about putting so much of myself into a book and then not being able to get an agent to read past the first chapter.
Failure has always been a pretty big fear of mine.
In fact, I’ll let you in on a little secret – I don’t do anything unless I know I can do it well. Ever. And if I do try something new and I’m not instantly good at it, I’ve been known to immediately give it up.
I’m pretty sure that’s a giant character flaw on my part.
The truth is though, in my adult life I’ve only ever really had 2 dreams.
To be a mommy, and to write a book.
We all know how well pursuing that first dream turned out.
Which is perhaps why I’ve been so resistant to pursuing the second.
The thought of failing at that too literally makes me sick.
The truth is though, I have more than one partially finished book on my laptop.
I always get to a certain point, and then I give up.
I freak out.
I walk away from whatever I’ve been working on, telling myself it’s just not good enough. That it can’t possibly go anywhere. That no one will want to read it, and I’ll end up feeling like a massive failure in the end.
Let’s face it; a girl can only take so much failure.
But something happened when I started writing about the boy. Or rather, a lot of things happened all at once.
Beginning with a very close friend of mine getting on my ass and pledging to hold me to deadlines along the way if that’s what it would take for me to finish a book. Encouraging me if only because she knew I would never be truly content until I at least tried.
Knowing me well enough to realize... this was the only thing I'd ever been really passionate about.
Her pushing coincided perfectly with the excitement I felt in throwing so much of myself into this story. This overwhelming desire I suddenly had to spend every spare moment writing.
Which culminated in the realization that, I could do this. I mean, I practically composed an entire novel in under a month. Coming up with the words was not an issue for me.
I just needed to have the confidence in myself to try.
And for some reason, writing out the whole story gave me that confidence.
I suppose one day, I may have to thank the boy for being my muse.
Which brings us to where we are now.
I’m going to write a book.
Or rather, finish a book I began working on years ago.
I don’t really want to get into the details just yet, because I’m afraid I’ll talk myself out of it.
But one way or another, I am going to finish a book this year.
I’ve designed a writing calendar for myself that has me completing the entire project in 12 weeks.
I already met the first deadline this weekend.
The goal is to have a completed book (albeit, one likely still in need of revisions and editing) by my birthday – April 11th.
I want to turn 29 being able to say that I’ve written a book.
And in a perfect world, I would turn 30 being able to say that it’s been published.
While my friends are busy pushing out new additions to their families this year, this is going to be my baby.
My big accomplishment.
My leap.
I’m still terrified of failing.
Terrified of putting so much of myself into something, and having to watch as it goes nowhere.
Thinking about the point in time when I’ll have to send this off to agents knots my stomach up like you wouldn't believe.
But I’m going to do it.
I’m going to try.
If for no other reason, than so that I can stop talking about it.
Once and for all.
I’ll know whether or not I have what it takes.
And if I don’t, well… someone better get me a drink.
Because failing at two major lifetime goals in such a short period of time, might just send me over the edge!
The only reason I’m mentioning anything here now though, is because turning my attention towards a book is going to mean turning it away from this space.
For at least a few months anyway.
It was over a year ago when the devirginator told me that I needed to do this. When he pointed out the fact that if I spent as much time working on a book as I did working on my blog, I could have it done in no time.
I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes at him and said he had way too much faith in me.
But he was right. I do a lot of writing here, and if I shift that focus even just a few days a week – it won’t be long before I find myself typing “the end”.
So while I will still be around (updating a few times a week I’m sure) I am going to be more absent than I’ve been in the past.
And I’m guessing the posts I do leave you with will be shorter in length than ever before.
Don’t worry, I won’t keep anything exciting from you.
But I also won’t likely be penning any lengthy dissections of the inner workings of my mind in the near future.
I’ll save that for the point in time when I’m lamenting not hearing back from agents!
I’m hopeful though.
More hopeful than I’ve been in a long time.
Determined to spend these next few months focused on myself.
Focused on my book.
And also, focused on training for a half marathon this summer.
You know – just for good measure.
I figure as long as I’m committed to being “off the cock” (a commitment that I plan on keeping in place until I finish this book of mine - because boys have a way of being distracting), I should probably find a way to channel all that excess energy I typically dedicate to dating.
I’ve gotten up at 5:30 every morning for the last 2 weeks to work out.
This could get interesting.
Either way though, I’m committed right now.
To myself.
To my book.
And to conquering some old fears.
While hopefully making one of my dreams come true.
So be patient with me over the next few months.
I plan on being kind of busy, just working on me.
ADSPACE
