Art is Risk, and Writing is Pickpocketing

Words are hard…

…said the aspiring author.

Yesterday, November 1, was the beginning of National Novel Writing Month (aka NaNoWriMo) and it has me feeling things.

Mostly fear.

If you know me personally, then you know that I dig writing novels. I dig writing all things, actually (even angsty poetry that will never, ever, EVER see the light of day). In fact, I dig writing things so much that I eventually want to make a career out of it.

So writing shouldn’t scare me, right?

Wrong. Totally wrong.

Maybe one day it won’t scare me. Maybe with each word I type, writing will scare me less and less. But the creation of any type of art is an inherent risk – a risk of rejection, a risk that the words that I write will be absolute, utter shit, a risk that my painstaking work will reveal that I am a talentless, hopeless shell of a human who should really just give it all up before he ruins the rest of his life.

But I guess the thing I love about writing is that you essentially get to teach yourself; you can always, always get better. I think some people are more naturally talented at it than others, but, overall, the more you write, and the more you read, the better you are.


So I’m basically a pickpocket – aren’t you proud, Mom?

I’m still technically in the query process (which means I’m attempting to get picked up by a literary agent, who would then sell my book to a publishing house, essentially) for my Young Adult Fantasy novel The Phoenix and the Halcyon. It’s my first attempt at publishing, and I’m honestly not sure what, if anything, is going to happen to with this story – but I’m really proud of it, regardless, for both the content itself and what I learned about writing from crafting it.

But, alas, I have many stories inside this overcrowded, anxious brain of mine. And so I have officially begun the first draft of a story I am tentatively titling Thunder Only Happens When It’s Raining. The story is a tongue-and-cheek combination of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours and every hilariously awkward journal entry I wrote in high school. I have good feeling about this one, I think.

So I’m going to spend November pounding out a crappy first draft of a story I already love, and, thus, scares the bejesus out of me. (Random thought: What’s a bejesus? Why is it inside of me? Should it be there? Is scaring it out of me a good thing? Is it imperative to my health?)

November is going to be a busy one, friends. Wish me the best of luck. Sorry if I don’t answer your calls, texts, or emails right away, I still love you, I promise.

It’ll be fine. I’ll get there. I’ll live. I don’t know.


Oh well, back to writing!


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