When I Knew

I knew I was a writer when I realized that yes, everything has already been done, done to death. Any so-called original thought I might have in my head would be, at best, a clever twist on something that someone else had already done, and better. That my voice was one tiny peep in a multitude, that I could scream my heart out and still not be heard. That even as I pondered and agonized over my precious little scribblings, there were people out there, in the same situation, only getting it done, getting published. That I am, in fact, lazy when it comes to writing fiction and in all likelihood lack the discipline to finish a novel.

I knew I was a writer because, knowing all that, beaten down and discouraged by my own deepest fears and insecurities, I still couldn't stop writing. I still can't. Life has intruded quite a bit on my writing time, so I haven't been updating this blog or making all that much progress on the book, but I think about it every day, and I write when I can. Got about 15,000 words down... not a hell of a lot for a novel, but like I said, I'm not stopping, even if it takes me another 10 years.