Those words sparked my spirit, paused my brain, and pushed-in a new understanding of “process.” The process of writing a book. No end in sight; just characters running melodramas, Young and the Restless style, in my psyche, lassoed and defined through my fingers and on to the page not often enough. I wasn’t committed to a deadline–or a timeline for that matter–except for the voice that kept pressing me from inside…”write the book, write the book.” The problem was, I was editing the book before writing it. Concern for what others would think had stopped me from writing. I’d lost site of the story in my head for the worry of what others would think. “Not the problem, write the book,” the voice said. Hemingway made it possible. It didn’t need to be good.
Not only can I commit to a crappy first draft and the process of writing, I can commit to Gandolf’s philosophy, “All good stories deserve embellishment,” and just tell my story, in any order, in any way, in any fashion; it is fiction after all. I am a product of all I’ve experienced. It’s not an autobiography. It’s a story; a romance. The characters will appear when it’s their time to speak. In the meantime, the word is “intent.” What do I intend to do?
Get to the end? Yes, eventually. Enjoy the process? Yes, it’s cathartic. Serve a purpose? Oh yes, for those that love has turned upside down, held under water, and made gasp ravenously for a freeing thought, this love story is for you. My intent is to write it, and to write it every day with that intent—to get to the end. The timeline will take care of itself. I’m committed to taking action.
Action is a crappy first draft.