Brutal Honesty


You are never going to want to write. Ever.

It won’t matter that you love your story, or that the scene in your head rivals the comedy genius of the greats that came before you, or that you really really really want to bring this book to life. Because when your ass hits that chair and you have your lined notebook or laptop in front of you, you will find twenty dozen things more interesting every single time.

Nor can you depend on inspiration and the muse to call on you. When they do I can assure you that nine out of ten times it will not be for the project you really want to be working on. Then when there is a rare case that it does you might get halfway through a scene or two before you realize that you aren’t hitting that same chord as when it popped into your head, and therefore the entire thing is junk.

As easy as writing is to the observer, never forget that it is most importantly a discipline. The successful of our kind do not have some magic well of knowledge on their side or a fairy godmother of writing. They put in the work day after day and have earned every last word they print. As do we earn that meager fifty-word paragraph that just refuses to be built onto.

Sure you can argue that without the spark of a story or a brilliant idea there would be no great novel. But I have been making up and writing stories since before I could communicate via the written word and have the scribbles to prove it. Yet after an amount of years that I grow increasing hesitant to share I still have no finished book to even begin to sell and an ever growing backlog of brilliant ideas and concepts rotting away to nothing in my brain.

I don’t lack good ideas or intentions, so what else can be concluded then that the problem remains as always with myself and my own drive and ambition to write. With every possible opportunity I have, when I literally have nothing but time to myself, at this point it is an active choice to not work towards my novel.

To change this it requires just as active a choice to write. For example, getting out of bed early this morning to write this post. Not because I wanted to, but because I knew I should. I need to write, even if it’s just jibberish for now, to set the habit in motion so my brain and body know that this is the time to do it.

Believe me, I get that it is much more satisfying to shut down in your free time, put on some tunes and just get lost in the fantasy. Hell, I think a good portion of my sanity comes from laying in bed just feeling the story all around me. Better yet when I pick up a really good book and get to visit someone else’s fantasy.

Yet, then I start thinking. This could easily be my story, and it could be some other lonely little introvert reading it and wishing she could live there to escape whatever bullshit she happens to be dealt in life. As they say in NaNo Land, someone out there needs your novel.

Moral of this post? Ass in chair, fingers to your writing implements, and GO!


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