The time has finally come to make my lifelong dream happen; I am at long last all set to write the great American novel. After a healthy, full life, one that is not yet over but one that has become rife with experience, it is time to stop procrastinating and live the dream. I'm not old by any means, but I'm old enough, just the right age to be a novelist anyway. I am bound and determined to become a novelist too, don't you worry about that. I want to get the masterpiece out that I'm sure is lying dormant somewhere within me.
After all, I have prepared for this my whole life.
I always wanted to be an author, even as a little child, to write great books and novels, to explore my imagination and expand my mind, to contribute to academia, to make a difference in this world. I devoured books as a child; I couldn't read enough of them. It was a habit, early formed, that I never could seem to break. I went everywhere with a book in my hand, which used to tick off my husband when we had one bathroom, because I could get lost in the tub with a book for hours. I studied the masters, from Shakespeare to Fitzgerald, from Hemingway to Kerouac, and I lived a Bohemian lifestyle so I could suffer and learn to think outside the box, to find different avenues to walk down, but I didn't stop there, oh no.
I took correspondence courses and I tried those writing tests, the ones you see in magazines (and most of which are scams), to see if I had any skill. But what the hell, they were fun exercises anyway. I honed my craft, writing short stories and submitting them, getting turned down some and even getting published some. Then, recently, I really got down to business, feeling that the time had finally come to test my chops.
I started building my own writing domain, my writing Mecca. I found a wonderful Cherry wood desk, an antique, and broke it in. I created my own writing room and decorated it with aromatic candles, proper lighting, and an excellent stereo so I could pipe in mood music to develop just the right ambience, a relaxing haven where I could escape and write for hours.
I found a beautiful old Royal typewriter, the kind with the reel to reel ink spools that you flip so you can use both sides. I bought the clear Whiteout ribbon so I can blot out mistakes when I need to. I'm going to write the old-fashioned way, none of this newfangled PC, artsy, easy to use computer crap. I want to hear the clunky-clunk-clunk of the keys and I am not going to have my beautiful masterpiece accidentally erased by hitting the wrong key while playing Words with Friends.
No, this is to be my opus, and it will be completed properly.
I even bought the expensive 20 lb. paper, the bonded kind, so you can actually feel the weight and texture of the paper, so you can see the indent the keys make when you type the words.
Yes indeed. My writing temple is complete.
I'll be ready to start the book tomorrow.
I did it, I started my book. It's all downhill from here. Getting started is the hardest part, always is. But there it sits, my beginning, on that heavenly 20 lb. cream-colored paper, pounded in with the heavy even keys of my Royal typewriter. It reads:
I am so proud! I think I will stop for the day; you have to pace yourself with these types of things.
Hmmm... Chapter One, Chapter One, Chapter One... Seems to be a sticking point thus far. It's a strong opening, don't misunderstand me, diary. I know that Rome wasn't built in a day. So many great books start with Chapter One. I am simply honored to have such a great beginning, such a wonderful starting place to work from.
I typed 'The', and then I used the Whiteout to erase it. Then I typed 'A' and used the Whiteout again. That whiteout is already paying for itself. That's as far as I got today.
I almost finished a whole sentence this morning but then I erased it. It just didn't feel right. I am, however, feeling extremely creative today. I'm certain to at least knock out a chapter, as soon as I decide what I should write the book about, perhaps after lunch. I am feeling a bit peckish. I think writers almost certainly write better on a full stomach. So I'll be back at it hard after a good meal.
The words Chapter One are really starting to piss me off. Why the hell do I have to be relegated to chapters? What kind of conventional hell says you have to be confined to the constraints of conventional form and wisdom? They're stupid words, Chapter 1. Why couldn't I start with Chapter A or Chapter Alpha or Chapter Charlie or Chapter Who Gives a Rat's Ass What Number It IS? What Am I, A Mathematician? WHO needs numbers in books?
This is stupid. I am erasing it.
After careful and stoic deliberation, I have put Chapter One back at the top center of the page. Who am I to reinvent the wheel? I shall buck up and march on.
I swear the words Chapter One are mocking me. They stare at me from the page like a pair of doll's eyes, black and dead. I must finish this book.
Day 153.The symbol for pi
Hit the tequila this morning after my writing session / ate the fricking worm too. LOL. I hate This fricking book. Im'a burn it.
After pulling the charred remains of the 20 lb. paper from my trash bin and gluing all the keys back onto my Royal typewriter, I have finally made a decision. I'm going to take up knitting instead. It is probably for the best. No amount of wood glue in the world is going to repair that Cherry wood desk. The axe did a pretty good number on it.
If you would like to read more articles like this or on a wide range of topics please visit: http://mimispeaks.blogspot.com/2013/04/a-writers-niche-and-her-chit-chat-over.html Miriam B. Medina loves to write and at length too. So I suggest you find yourself a comfortable chair, and while you are at it, grab a steaming hot cup of coffee and a bagel with cream cheese and you will be all set to settle down for a while. Happy reading.Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Miriam_B_Medina