and ramblings on everything in between
As I’ve stumbled my way through the process of outlining, writing, editing, and ignoring two novels over the past few years, I’ve become immensely more appreciative of the novels I pick up at the library and hold in my hands.
You did it, I silently whisper to the author. You sat down and you freakin’ did it.
Now I realize the magnitude of the small wonder that rests in my hands as I get lost in the prose within. Each book seems like a miracle to me now that I realize how tedious and long the journey is to get it written, let alone somehow get it published.
Of all the fantastic works that are out there, I can’t help but wonder how many amazing novels are stuck in notebooks and on thumb drives and in chicken scratch notes on random pieces of paper. How many ground-breaking novels are trapped in someone’s mind, invading their dreams at night? How many War and Peace, Romeo and Juliet, The Catcher in the Rye, and Unbroken novels are floating in limbo, just waiting for us?
As writers, we have a responsibility to these ideas, to these notions that fill our heads. Yet, it’s all too easy to say the responsibility is far more than we’re capable of. I shrink away from it almost every day. But the ideas don’t leave me. They knock on the door when I’m occupied by someone else’s neatly bound idea. They sit down beside me as I’m out living life. They put me to bed at night and wake me up in the morning. They sit in the wings, just waiting for me.