Writing a book is no small feat, even for those millions who have already done so. There are, of course, many shapes and sizes of authors, from those starving artists who nobly (but hungrily) dedicate their lives to writing, to the housewives, high-schoolers, and hobbyists who try to squeeze in time when they can. Each is met with their own personal lies and truths that struggle to dissuade them from their task or compel them to complete it.
I am more on the side of the latter group, trying to squeeze blood from a turnip to finish the project that I started what feels like an eternity ago, trying to gauge its importance in contrast to the other parts of my life that are equally compelling and part of being human. And I struggle with those lies that we tell ourselves about not being good enough, smart enough, skilled enough, or just…enough. The truths that help me are to realize that I don’t have to be.
Each of us is on a journey, and though I’m tempted to go cliche and talk about smelling roses, it goes beyond that. From the time we are born till the time we die, we are each shaped by the life we are given to live. From those experiences spring our inspiration and from that, the words we choose to write.
Though I’ve often wished that certain experiences never would have happened, and that others would have, it occasionally occurs to me that without those experiences and lack thereof, I would not have the stories–both the nonfiction story of my life, and the fictional stories that spring from my eternal imagination–to tell.
What experiences have shaped you in your life, and how do they influence the stories you choose to tell and how you choose to tell them?