The mixed feeling I have been having recently made me doubt whether I was ready to write a novel or not.
In the haze of the feelings, I neglected to look at anything–my entire life, really–logically.
Ready for what, really? Is anyone really ready to write a novel?
Do I lack maturity to write a novel? Dedication? Discipline? Guts? Do I actually want to write a novel?
I made arrangements with my school to have an Independent Study class. I had to write the syllabus, and I called the class Novel Development and Composition.
I wanted to write a novel next year. I wanted to write a novel next year so that I have that under my belt. I can look people in the eye and say “I wrote a novel.” I wanted to write a novel, just in case, in the future, I never wanted to write again. I wanted to have written a novel sometime in my life so that when I die, I can’t regret that I “never wrote a novel.” I would have. In 12th grade.
And during my drought, when everything was terrible, I just couldn’t imagine that happening.
The thing is, I have been ready to write a novel all my life. I could already look people in the eye and say “I wrote a novel.” I have already written novels. I have begun them and I have stuck with them. I have been writing novels since middle school. And now, I am ready to take it to the next level–finishing them.
It’s going to be hard and it’s going to feel impossible but I have completed hard and impossible things. I am a fighter. I get through hard times. I’m still here, aren’t I?
I’m going to write a novel, and it won’t be the last thing I ever do. I have a lot more coming after that.