So after two weeks of brainstorming story ideas (battling aliens with the earth's fate hanging in the balance? undercover CIA operative in WWII Germany? smart Southern lawyer turning the legal system on its ear?), characters (Marty McFly meets Chandler Bing meets Angela Chase), story structure (first person narrative vs. third person omniscient), and other such vagaries I finally settled down today to start my novel. And I have no real expectations of this. Any future references I make to this being "the next great American novel" are made with my tongue planted firmly in my cheek. It's a fool's errand, made for no other reason than to make it through the process and see what the view looks like from there.
So far I've written 610 words. And you're probably reading this and saying, "Oh, that's nice" in a ho-hum kind of way. Let me tell you: those six hundred words have been the mental equivalent of running lines or wind sprints at the end of the first day of basketball practice. I'm exhausted from sitting in this chair; painstakingly considering the voices of a handful of teenagers that DO NOT EVEN EXIST.
And I'm loving every second of it. This is like exercise for my brain...I'm no expert, but there might be some endorphins involved here as well. I'll write a little bit, and I'm wanting it to be good and point it in the right direction, and then I like to back away from it and just revel in knowing that this part of me even exists.
It's nice to know that I can still surprise myself at 28 and 5/6 years old.
(P.S. Because I know I'll get this question from one smart ass or another, let me clarify: there will be no aliens in this story. Though if it did, I know a ten year old who would think I was the coolest cousin ever. Maybe next time, kiddo.)