So I’ve been trying to write this novel. And I’ve been hitting wall after wall. Questions keep popping up like: What the heck am I doing? Why in the world am I doing this? Who said I needed to write this anyway?

Basically, I feel like I’m climbing a huge mountain by myself with a map I hastily drew on the back of a napkin. And it’s not like I’m a trained mountain climber. I’m wearing newly purchased hiking boots and some sunglasses, but I feel woefully out of shape and I wish I had thought to pack some hearty snacks.

It’s been an interesting process. One thing I’m learning is that when I force myself to be creative, good stuff sometimes comes out. I’ve been surprising myself. Of course my novel is a mess. How could I expect anything less when I have never done this before? But it’s an interesting mess. I think it’s at least a little bit interesting.

The coolest part about writing is when you capture something true, when you articulate something you didn’t fully understand before, something right below the surface of your conscious thought that just needed the right opportunity to arise, when you write a completely fictitious scene that captures something real about life and helps you understand yourself better.

There’s no other feeling like it.

So I’m going to keep pressing on. I’m determined to climb this mountain. And when I have, I feel certain I won’t be the same as when I started.

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