I have wanted to write a novel for a very long time.
I spent most of my middle school and early high school summers sitting at the family computer creating stories full of characters and settings more real to me at times than the real life around me. I loved writing, and those stories came so easily to me.
This desire to create a new world full of characters and life continues still, especially in the past few months. I feel this pang in my heart, this yearning to write again—to write a novel. Unlike my writing days at an earlier age, I think about this unborn novel with fear—fear of failure, fear of incompletion, fear of having it turn out to be anything but a great, wonderful, well-written novel. My fear of diving in and immersing myself in the story prevents it from forming in my mind. The characters feel distant and hard to get to know. I am so caught up in the future reception of this story, of the superficial aspects of writing (Who doesn’t want to write the next best-seller?) that I blind myself to the utter joy of simply creating a beautiful story.
And so I continually remind myself—this novel must be fun, it must be for me. I must focus on enjoying this process of creation and acquainting myself with the setting, characters, and themes. I must settle into this new world and become a part of it. I must push away my pride and realize that it could end up a failure, that it might never be seen by anyone but me. I must realize that it’s okay if this happens. I must strive to enjoy every creative moment. I must take refuge in my love of writing and simply write.