The idea of writing a book is like
The idea of reading a book under a tree
It seems lovely.
You have your idea, you have your laptop (or notebook), the air crackles because you’re embarking on something new.
You have your book in your hand, the spine hasn’t even been cracked yet (or is so cracked the pages are falling out), the air seems fresher because it’s morning and you have a warm cup of coffee in your hand.
So you sit…
At your desk. The white screen of your laptop (the empty page of your notebook) is UNDAUNTING. The words flow. Your ego soars. You are a writer! You. Are. Killing. It.
Under the tree. The grass is soft, the sun is warm, you read slow letting the words seep into your consciousness. It’s a lovely moment.
You are not sure of the meaning of a word. You look it up. You search around to see the word in context. You briefly check your email. You go back to your idea, but wait… where were you?
The sun is warm. You scoot further under the tree where it’s more dirt than grass. You throw a frisbee back to some guy who almost took out your nose. You lean against the trunk, but wait… are those ants?
You’re lost. Does any of this even make sense? And what comes next?
You’re swatting ants off your legs. Sweat trickles down your back. You spill coffee on the book.
You get up from your desk and make lunch.
You go inside and take a shower.
Writing a book is like reading under a tree.
It seems nice.
Until it isn’t.
And then you try again.