The thought of writing a novel has always scared me. It seems so big, so daunting. I can hardly imagine finishing the first draft, much less the multiple edits and rewrites a novel goes through before publication. It just seems like too much. Plays, short stories, screenplays and blog posts always seemed more manageable. Less ambitious, smaller chunks of work. Yeah, that’s what I preferred.
But then I had a conversation with my friend Jared. I told him about the first time I took my wife to the Museum of Modern Art in New York. I told home about how much I love that museum, and how I introduced her to the place, the art, and even the ideas that underpin the modern art world. He watched me relay the story with passion, as I often do with those things that I love, and he looked me dead in the eye and said, “That’s your book.”
I realized he was right. Then the next thing that came to mind was a string of curse words. We talked more about that day and the visit to the museum, and a structure started to take form. A young couple popped into my mind. They began to take shape. We talked about pieces of artwork that I loved, and those I hated. I relayed some of the conversations I could remember, and some new ones started to fill in the blanks.
I knew this was something I needed to write. So I started the next day.
I have a few chapters in the bag, and I am still figuring out the structure and the plan, but this is a book I will write.
I’m scared to post this. Hell, I’m scared to write this, because announcing it to the Internet is akin to planting a battle flag atop a hill and telling the world, ‘This is where I make my stand’. That’s some really scary stuff.
But, I’ve gone and done it. Now I guess I have to do the work.