When I was eight years old, my parents bought a swing set for the backyard. It was red and yellow, with two swings. My father installed it at the extreme northern end of the yard, a few feet to the left of the brick fireplace he had built upon moving into the house, years before I was born. I cannot say I remember whether or not I had asked for a swing set or if my parents decided it would be a good idea to get one. Either way, that summer–the summer I was eight–I spent a lot of time on those swings.
Well, I mainly used the swing closer to the fireplace. If anyone wanted to join me, they needed to use the other swing. Sometimes, I’d swing for hours. I used to love swinging on July evenings, the air warm, the yard fragrant with flowers and freshly cut grass, the scent of a late barbecue from next door wafting on the breeze. I’d plop down on the swing, push my way into a swinging motion, and kick . . . and kick . . . and kick. Higher. Always trying to get as high as possible, so I could see.
Indeed. Especially at twilight, when I reached the apex of my swinging journey, I would peer to the north, beyond the backyard, beyond the neighbor’s yard . . . above the rooftops. And I would glimpse . . .
But then I bottomed out again, beginning another rotation. When I returned to the top of the arc, though, there it was . . . a netherworld. A distant, ghostlike village just beyond the horizon. As dusk descended, the village would, counterintuitively, glow brighter, shining in contrast to the darkening landscape. If I looked closely enough, I could see spectral shapes moving to and fro. Every few seconds, as I reached the apex of my swinging arc, I would see them again, a moment or two removed from my last glimpse. Glimpse after glimpse, for an hour or more each night . . . before it became full-on dark and my mother called me inside. Snapshots into another world, another dimension.
Back then, immersed in the wonder of being eight years old, I believed–fully–that what I was seeing out in the twilit distance was real–an alternate dimension of sorts, with wraiths living their lives and doing whatever it was they did. I’d think of them during the day, too, or when I was inside, or at night while I slept. What were they doing when I couldn’t see them? I began to write down ideas. Stories. A love of the creative process was born.
That’s probably how it starts for many writers and artists–early on, at some point during childhood, you realize that your mind tends to drift. That, even more than most kids, you question and conjure and wonder, and ask, “What if?” You get lost in story and have conversations with yourself when no one’s around . . . or sometimes even when they are. And as you get a little older and master the language more, the nuances, the flow, the texture and taste of the words . . . you write. Short stories. Essays. Plays. Novels.
Novels. I would have to say the number one question I get from non-writers who are aware that I have written novels is: “Where did you get the idea?” And that is often followed by: “I could never write a novel. Way too long!”
Long it is. And that’s the challenge. That’s the price that must be paid if you want to turn your aha-light bulb idea into three hundred pages of story and forward motion. Ideas are a dime a dozen (even good ones). Be it fiction or nonfiction, writing a book is work. A lot of work.
Do you outline? If research is needed, how much do you do? After writing seven chapters–riding the roller coaster of inspiration–what happens when you come to chapter eight and, suddenly, the shine wears off, the plot becomes murky, and you’re not sure which direction to take? And–if you’re like 99.9 percent of writers in the world, you also have a day job. You have bills to pay, responsibilities to attend to, tasks to complete, people to care for. How on earth do you carve out the time to write a novel? And even if you do, will you have any energy left over after all the responsibilities of the day are done? Writing takes energy and creativity. These may be in short supply after a full day.
Or maybe you set your alarm for 4:00 a.m. and try to get some writing in before anyone else is up. But are you? Or will you feel like a zombie author, staring half-asleep at your screen, unable to process thoughts? Make no mistake about it–writing a book is difficult. In many ways, the writing itself is the easiest part. It’s everything else that can trip us up, even when we enter the project with the best of intentions.
And that’s the trick, really. Does writing a novel take talent? I suppose. Some writers have an abundance of talent; others may not have quite as much, but they have enough–they can do it. If they didn’t have the ability to write a book, they wouldn’t have arrived at this point–planning out a story line, falling in love with an idea so much, they are willing to spend the next year or more bringing it alive on the page. Anyone who reaches this point in the journey has the ability to write a book. It is hard–it requires creating something out of nothing and then spending countless hours editing and honing and slicing away at the result–polishing it, killing your darlings, and revising, revising, revising.
Which brings us to the key. The secret ingredient, if you will, of not only starting, but finishing a novel. Well, perhaps there are two ingredients. The first is commitment. Given all of the challenges already touched on here, it can feel impossible–literally–to find the time and energy to complete a novel. How do you overcome the challenge? You have to be committed to your work, your idea, and have the perseverance to see it through. There is no other way.
The other ingredient? Confidence. Self-belief. Have you shared your idea with others? Quite likely, you have received some very encouraging and positive feedback. “Great idea! I’ll buy it when it’s available! Wow! I wish I’d have thought of that! Sounds like a best seller!” But, just as likely, you will have received some lukewarm or even negative feedback, too. “Really? Sounds contrived to me. I don’t think your idea is believable. Who cares? The market is full of stories like that. Your novel will get lost in a sea of similar stories.” Or–“There’s no market for that, though. No one will buy it.” The list of would-be criticisms can stretch on, as long as the Sahara Desert. It is easy to become discouraged, assess the monumental task ahead, and then shrug your shoulders and say, “Maybe they’re right. Who am I kidding? Who would want to hear what I have to say?”
This is where belief must come in. There is no one–no one–in the world with your unique perspective. It is likely true that your story idea is not entirely original (in reality, at this point, there may not be a truly original idea in existence; everything, in one way or another, has already been done). But it has not been done, and not been told, in your point of view. Only you can bring your life experiences, your voice, your essence, to the subject. In short, only you can tell the story you have inside you, the story you feel a need to share with the world.
And that matters. That’s what it’s all about. Something–some force, some pure and true element of your soul–has instilled in you a need to write a story. If you don’t write it, it will nag you, always. So, press on. Don’t listen to the naysayers (including the ones inside your own head). Find a way to complete the project, even if it takes years.
Because, when it comes right down to it, we all have that eight-year-old inside of us, full of inspiration and imagination and wonder–with a story to tell.
So tell it. Share it. The world will be a better place when you do.
Thanks so much for reading!
–Mike
Eye-Dancers 