Yesterday I met a friend at the park. On the way, I had the Epiphany.
"If I could do anything in the world, what do you think it would be that I would want to do? What is my dream?" I asked her.
I forget what she guessed first, but her second guess was, "Write a book." BINGO!
This epiphany has been a long time coming. The night before that, and the night before that, and the night before that, people have been there in my line of view, chomping on my ideas and encouraging me.
I was in Barnes and Noble a few weeks ago, thinking about my dream. "Wouldn't it be amazing to write a book? To see my words on pages? To weep the words through pen when I am unable to speak them?"
Where do I even start? How do I find an agent? What is the purpose of the book? Egads, there is so much competition, so many people wanting to do the same thing. I get overwhelmed when I sit there, thinking, "What do I want an agent to know about me?" "How many times will I be rejected before there is a bite?"
And then another thought occurred to me: Each and every one of these mother-loving books in Barnes and Noble was written by someone who didn't have a clue what they were doing when they started. They just stepped out into the ocean and started swimming.
The waves roil and I think, "No one will read this damn thing." And then I think, "I have a story to tell, and gosh darn it, only I can do the telling."
I am so excited.