I wrote a book this month.
Actually, I typed out 50,000 words about the dysfunctional life of an advice columnist, and it’s bad. The plot doesn’t make much sense. The main characters are uninteresting. Sometimes they’re likable, sometimes not, and half of the time I can’t even remember what names I had given them. The writing is messy and with it comes cheesy dialogue, boring descriptives, and narratives that are written in multiple tenses.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m incredibly proud of what I accomplished. I wrote a book. In 30 days. I got up at 5:30am every morning to write, and then I wrote again in the evening. I worked hard and I dug deep. But, if you look at this book for what it is, it’s nothing more than a poorly planned and written jumble of nonsense that will most likely never see the light of day.
That is, unless I decide to give this writing thing a real shot. Because despite my complaints about the horrific nature of my book, I can’t help but think that somewhere in there is a story worth telling.
There’s a part of me that wonders – if I keep waking up at 5:30 every day to chip away at this thing even for 30 or 40 minutes, what will I have in a month? 6 months? A year?
At the very least, I’ll have a better book… and a pretty great way to start my day.