For many years, as long as my husband has known me at the very least, I have wanted to write a book. I haven’t had a plot or a research question or a compelling personal exploration in mind, but I have had an unrelenting whisper in the back of my mind that I want to try.
So, I am.
I find myself in a unique position of being able to devote time to my writing. With that comes the new reality that I have to put my butt in a chair and actually write. It’s one thing to dream of writing. It’s another entirely to devote time to sitting alone and putting words on the screen. It’s hard and wonderful and full of self-doubt. It’s a slog and a joy and might be terrible. Or maybe there’s gems in there. Maybe I’ll have an audience of five – two children, two nieces, one nephew. Maybe other people will read it too. Maybe I have no business writing fiction for 12-year-olds. Maybe I do. Generally speaking, I don’t love living in the gray spaces, but it’s where the writing happens, so it’s where I find myself.
Noah and I came up with an idea for a middle grade novel about a missing dragon, so that’s what I’m working on now. I’ve got eight chapters drafted and no idea how many more to go. I’m sitting my butt down and writing. Then I’ll edit. And then? Then, I’ll see what happens.