For the past few years, I’ve been trying to write a novel. Not just any novel – it couldn’t be slipshod work – it had to be a good one. One that critics and readers alike would rave about. One that would band fans together as much as Harry Potter did. People who would stay with me until the very end. (I’m a Potterhead, if you didn’t know.)
My ambitions were all the way up there: even higher than the milky way. It’s not that it’s not achievable, of course, but it takes hard work and determination. And frankly, a lot of luck, and even more faith.
But I forgot the fundamental thing that led me to writing to first place wasn’t to be successful, or have 10 best-sellers on the New York Times Best-seller list, or to have an enormous fan base. It was because writing made me happy. Telling a story made me happy. The way words seemed to fly out of my hands and into the world… That fascinated me to no end.
I had spent last few years obsessing over the right beginning such that I have over 10000 words worth of words that I might never use again. And I think that’s because I was seeking to write ‘the perfect book’.
But the perfect book isn’t out there. I don’t need to put that much pressure on myself.
I just need to write, and have fun while I’m at it.