So, I wrote a book.

I can’t say it was an easy thing. You hear of these writers regurgitating ink out onto their pages at incredible rates, a feat I’ve yet to accomplish. Even reading on forums of individuals with the superpower-like ability to churn out word counts in the upper thousands per day seemed impressive but off putting. It just wasn’t me, no matter how I tried.

I’ve been told I have a way about me, that can make for an enjoyable tale, but I find some trouble in bypassing the inherent stuttering that comes with my working mind. Eventually I’ll spit out what I feel sounds best, after much deliberation . . . trouble is, by then I’ve lost my way. My dream has always been to become a writer, glorifying and exaggerating tales pulled from the pockets of my deteriorating gray matter. Writing, to me, is the purest form of art. Music, painting, etc., can become masterpieces in a matter of minutes given the right circumstances. Books, however, they take time regardless of their simplicity; even short stories can take time to grow.

If I can write a novel, I can rule the world. Or, at least, reign over the one I create.

Starting from scratch is a daunting task that I was never quite prepared for. I’d written short stories about true love and quick manifestos regarding my familial relationships, but I’d never progressed into full blown authorship. It was a scary thought, retelling the story that’d flashed across the backs of of my eyelids for several years. I’d only ever gotten as far as summarizing and writing out the major plot points that had stuck through the chum, bloody and torn to shreds. Then I sat on it, let it stew in the backseat of my car during the summer heatwave, melting into the leather interior without the windows rolled down. By the time I let it back out I hated it, it was deformed and mushy and nothing like what I’d wanted. I was ready to give up.

It’s nothing personal, I’d say to myself, you’re just not cut out for it. And it would have been a lost cause, too, if I weren’t so stubborn.

Then, a bittersweet crisis developed; a disastrously bad thing happened and my life was torn asunder, cut down at the knees I begged for reprieve. But I fought it-blood, sweat and tears-until life and I came to an amicable compromise, leaving me with a much needed opportunity. So, I sat back, intending to write, not the next great American novel, but the words I wished to speak, unconcerned with the audience who mightn’t listen.

I put everything I had into it, but found my madness slow. By the first month I’d put down no more than a short novella, by the second I’d less than doubled that. I wasn’t sure of my methods and I had no strategies, I could only lock myself in a room and hope for the best and it just wasn’t working. By the half-year mark I realized there needed to be a set of changes or else I’d soon be failing as miserably as I started.

Stephen King once said (and forgive me for paraphrasing) that if you can’t finish [the first draft] of your story in three months, you might reconsider writing it at all. I believe I read this quote around the sixth month of working on MONSTER. It was a bit disheartening at first, having someone I hold in high esteem basically insinuate my efforts had been for naught. He went on to explain other variations of his tried and true methods of writing and I willingly ate them up. I didn’t believe every word of it, I couldn’t–I’m not him. While I’ll never find myself as he has I most certainly can still string together a series of verbs and nouns in the way I see fit.

It was then that I saw it as my story, a telling only I could finish, and it took on a life of its own. It quickly changed from a anecdote about ghouls bumping in the night to a full fledged dramatic narrative of a man fighting against his consciousness. I continued looking for tips and tricks from a variety of sources and pushed on, writing down and keeping chaotic notes as I went. I was in the thick of it and I couldn’t stop.

I told every one-insuring the monthly question of, how’s that novel coming?and enlisted the help my dear friend Phil to read my weekly notations. Having someone to hound me for my next chapter was the best choice I ever made. I made it a point of embarrassment if I never finished and now it’s done. My first draft, sitting next to a massive spreadsheet detailing my major plot points and connections, smiles at me from the corner of my desktop. I’ve accomplished a life goal and I couldn’t be more ecstatic. I can hear the tone of my voice change as people ask me about it, I get happy and passionate. It’s a good feeling.

But I’m scared, and rightfully so. I’ve had no active criticism, no editing, and no thoughts beyond my own in regards to the direction I’ve headed. I’ve found that the average writer lives from the gutteralbeit a colorful and wondrous gutter, it’s still a gutter at heartthat I’d be lucky to make an advance large enough to cover a Happy Meal if I’m to get one at all. The author does not live the life of extravagance, let alone live at all without alternate means.

Though, I think I’m okay. I never set out to write for anyone but myself and if even one person ends up enjoying this small selection of my imagination I feel I’ve done my job. I want to write more, I will write more. I’ve been told to take some time off between drafts for that magic to wear off and give way to the rust and muck underneath to prepare for another coat of varnish.

And I have, but now I’m raring to go.