Writing a book is like the opening of 8 Mile when Eminem’s doing all these rap gestures in the bathroom mirror while he mentally prepares for this huge battle, and eventually he pukes and subsequently chokes on stage. It feels like that every single time I sit with my laptop or even think about this work in progress of mine.
All writers have different motivations for writing, but I’ve always wanted to write a book. I think the accomplishment of the thing may have more allure than even the prospect of seeing it published. What I’ve always found incredible about books is how much their authors had to say. They had so many ideas, emotions, and words that they had to be bound.
Some days when I work on my book I think it’s amazing, and I feel that overwhelming pride that you can only feel when you put your full heart into something. Other days, I think the entire notion of me writing a book is a fool’s errand. No literary agent has come along offering me representation, I’m not “internet famous,” and I don’t have that many Twitter followers. Who would actually want to read that much of my writing anyway—let alone pay money to do so? I don’t feel worthy a lot of the time. I don’t feel like I’ve earned the right to write a book as if that were a thing. Even as I sit here typing this messy, remarkably ineloquent post at 4:52 a.m., I’m thinking, “See, this is why you have no business writing a book.”
So maybe I don’t have any business writing a book, but I’m going to continue doing it anyway, because as much as I would love to have some literary agent volunteering their services or thousands of Twitter followers to justify the cultural relevance of my 140-character quips, I’m simply not willing to wait around for that to happen.
Another significant challenge to writing this thing has been the reality that I still have to be a person while I write this book. I still have a career; I’m still a daughter, a girlfriend, and a friend. I don’t have the kind of job where I can freely write whenever I choose. There are some lapses, but most days my job requires my attention all day. The job I do requires me to read a ton of confusing, boring stuff and be alert to mistakes. It’s repetitive, and there days when it’s more stressful than others. As for writing my book, a lot of it happens on the train to and from work. I wake up each morning, decide if I feel like writing something for my blog or sleeping more, eat breakfast, get ready for work, walk to the train, and then write about my experiences with being fat for 35 minutes. From that state of mind, I walk to the office and try to be efficient for seven and a half hours while stories, sentences, and ideas for my book race through my mind most of the day. After work, I get back on a train and pick up where I left off. It’s not ideal, but I have to do what I can.
You always hear about people who claim they dedicated every free moment of their life to writing their book. If these people actually exist, all I can say is bravo. I can’t do that, and because I can’t I wonder if that’s some indication that I’m not serious enough about this. I speculate that my need to breathe and unwind with reality TV means that my heart truly isn’t in this, because I’m obviously not as dedicated as I should be. Maybe we’re just all different. I don’t know.
Regardless of the implications of any of this, I’m going to finish this damn thing. Whether you see it as an e-book, a self-published book, or a traditionally published book remains to be seen. I’ll also share with you that the working title right now is Fatta Girl. And please emphasize “working title,” because some days (like everything else about this book) I think, “YES. I LOVE IT.” while other days I think, “Oh my gosh, how embarrassing. Stop.”
So that’s where my head’s at lately. Please send chocolates.
