Saturday, October 30, 2010


Well, it is a Saturday morning, and instead of staying in bed an extra hour like I wanted, I forced myself to roll out of bed, get dressed and head to the neighborhood Starbucks. Now I sit here with my Americano, apple fritter and glass of water -- prepared for the long haul. Mumford and Sons plays in the background, while the comforting noise of the saturday bustle threatens to distract me. All of the little kids dressed in their halloween costumes peek my interest, forcing my eyes to wander away from the screen.

But today can't be about making excuses. It is only about making a commitment.  

November doesn't officially start until Monday, but it would be foolish for me to assume that I could arrive home from work around 7 and experience enough motivation to generate the momentum that my novel desperately needs. Thus the coffee shop Saturday -- a day devoted to only writing.

Last night, I shut all of the blinds, lit all of the candles, and sat on my comfy couch with a box of chocolates thinking about my life as a writer.

In one of my motivational writing books, they offer prompts to help generate writing ideas. One said to write about why you are interested in writing. And that started me thinking about why I am a writer. Where did this interest come from anyway?

So yesterday, with the flickering candles and the scent of autumn as my company, I went back and read through all of the stories that I have half written. I realized that I have been a writer for nearly three years now. And though I might be biased, I found that the things I had written were in fact not so bad. Yes, some of the wording was extremely awkward and my grammar was absolutely atrocious, but the ideas were there. My ideas -- my writing stared me in the face. It stared at me and instead of saying, "give up now, you have no talent," it seemed to be saying, "you can do this; don't give up."

And I don't want to give up either. Somehow I have gone from a girl who writes from time to time, to somebody who actually deems herself a writer. It is no longer just a hobby but an identity.

I don't write because I am bored and have nothing better to do; I write because I genuinely enjoy it. I write because it gives me a way to let those thoughts and feelings channel their way from my brain to actual words and ideas on a piece of paper.

After reading through all of my old pieces, I read my novel. And now, I need to stop blogging about it and open up the document titled Novs9 and write. Write because I am an imaginer, a story teller, and a writer.

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