It’s been years since I’ve attempted to undertake a major writing project. My first effort was an absolute train wreck. I didn’t know anything about writing, but I liked the idea of it. I was an at-home mom of two tiny little girls, and I was nose-deep in post-partum depression. Writing was my means of escape. That book – despite all the kind encouragement from my dear proofreaders – never got published. Big fat hairy surprise.
Since that time, I have spent a few years actually learning a thing or two about writing. I realized that perhaps there’s some wisdom in all the famous writers’ advice about putting in time on small-scale projects. So that’s what I did. I’ve had some short stories, articles and even poems published here and there. I’ve had the immense privilege of watching some of my work played out on a stage. And I’ve blogged. Oh yes, I’m counting this pathetic, intermittent attempt at bloggership as one of my ladder rungs.
And now the time has come. I have had book ideas tumbling over themselves in my brain for way too long and one of them is persistent enough that I’ve decided to let it out. I have already written the first chapter. Well, it’s really more of a preface. But still, the point is I’ve started!
I am a real writer. I know this because now it takes a monumental effort to make myself sit at the computer and actually focus on outputting all the things that flowed so perfectly through my mind while I was in the shower. And now I can find a quadzillion and four things to do instead of writing my book. Like blogging. Oh yes, I am a real writer. I’m procrastinating on my writing by…writing. Yay me!
Okay, now I need to get to work for real. But maybe I should check this post for typos first.
No! Get to work!
But I have too many exclamation points. That’s a no-no.
Doesn’t matter!!! Get to work!
“Doesn’t matter” is a sentence fragment.
Mom cares. But then again, she claimed to like my first book, so…