For the past fifteen years, I’ve wanted nothing more than to be a writer. Specifically, a novelist. I love character studies, and I’ve always felt that short stories didn’t give me enough time to focus on each character. Despite my constantly busy work schedules, somewhere along the lines I’ve actually written three novels. Even though they’re really not very good (this is not modesty talking), I still feel kind of proud that I at least finished something. I don’t really talk about them a whole lot, but every time I have mentioned writing books, people generally have one response.
And it’s not the one you’d think. If someone told me they’d written a book, I couldn’t imagine replying anything aside from, “That’s so awesome. What is it about?”
Do you know how many times someone has asked me what my books were about? Twice.
Do you know what people generally say when I admit I’ve written several books? They tell me about the book they’ve always wanted to write but just haven’t found the time or motivation to do so. Once I profess my interest in writing, it’s as if I’ve given other people permission to tell me all about their own book ideas.
This sort of irritates the shit out of me. I’m not saying that I don’t want to hear about your book ideas (although I’m cool with you not talking about it). I realize many of us have imaginations and would like to share the products of said imaginations. My point is that I’ve actually produced something from my imagination. These books might not be great, and they’ll never be bestsellers, but they’re at least on paper.
I might like to talk about my book ideas, too.