It’s funny how I started my novel and suddenly feel too shy to share it with anyone other than Lori, and even then I feel stupid and amateurish. Even passages I think strong fall flat when read aloud. Our confidence is so often dependent upon familiarity, whether of people, places or pursuits. I’ve never considered myself a fiction writer but like most nonfiction authors sensed a novel hidden deep within hungering to get out into the light of day. Now that November is here (National Novel Writing Month, "Thirty days and nights of literary abandon!") I’ve surrendered to the inevitable and started seeing where my thoughts would take me. Yesterday I labored over the first 2,300 words to flesh out a passage that had haunted me for years. The feeling is indescribable.
I might never finish the novel. It might turn out as bad as anything I’ve ever written, and I’ve written some execrable crap in my time. But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m letting my defenses down. I’m letting a voice come out that’s been too long quieted. I’m doing what I want to. Isn’t that the whole point of life?