There’s a quote I really like, by someone that right now I can’t remember (I write down a lot of quotes by a lot of people; after a while things start to get mixed up), that says that day by day nothing changes until one day you look back and everything is different. I swear I’m going to remember who said that by the end of this post or so help me.
Anyway, today was my niece’s birthday party. I was intent on not going since I’m still in the middle of an allergy crisis and the damn party was across town; which involved two buses and excessive heat. My grandpa came to town just for this though so I realized that if I wanted to see him I’d have to go. I forced myself to go. I went.
It wasn’t as bad getting there and I managed to split a cab back to my side of town; an air conditioned cab, thank goodness. I am pretty exhausted, but I’m not that stressed.
I got home though and I came across this post here. Then it hit me that when my aunt and my grandpa, and other people, asked me that oh so dreaded question: “So, hows the novel going?”, I actually had a different answer than my usual “It’s going.” I talked about my book as though it was real; which is something I never did before. I’ve been sure of it before, but not in a long time and never like this. When I was asked what my plans were once I had a manuscript, I didn’t say I’d think about it when I got there, because I have plans now. I’m honestly 100% sure I’m going to complete this; and yes, this is very new for me. I might not write as much as I’d like everyday and I may not finish as soon as I’d hope, but I am going to finish it this time. I’m going to show it to people. I’m probably going to be rejected about 20 times, if I’m lucky. And it’ll eventually be published one way or another.
I’ve realized that for me writing has been 10% talent and 90% worry about the fact I’m only 10% talented, but because now I’m a couple of years older than I was when I last put myself through all of this, my worry is slowly giving way to something else. Where I would have found excuses to let stress get in the way, I’ve chosen to shut the world away if I have to in order to avoid it, but I don’t stop writing. If I’m spiking a fever, as I was the other day, I’ll write the two or three coherent sentences I can manage before taking my medicine and sleeping the day away. I’m 25 years old; I’ve more than realized it’s too late to keep saying I’m going to be a writer when I grow up. This is it. And at some point, somehow, I seem to have realized that.
P.S: C.S Lewis! Ha!