My golden birthday present

I'd like to make a public announcement. This November, I will have my golden birthday. And I decided that, for my golden birthday, I am going to give myself a present. A golden present. (Just kidding. I promise not to say 'golden' anymore in this post.) I am going to write a book before I turn 30. As April 30th just passed, I now have seven months to do this. I think I can do it. In fact, I can totally do it.

Sounds pretty bold, right? I know. But I'm also excited—as in, really.

I'm also simultaneously scared out of my mind. Of course I'm riddled with self-doubt. Like I can write a book! Okay, so I've written a lot. I even do it professionally, but I've never written fiction. Long fiction, anyway. I don't know anything about pacing, character development, arcs, writing dialogue . . . And who in the world is going to read it, besides my seven blog readers and my parents? [p.s. I love you, blog readers. You're not chopped liver.]

And for another thing, I so hate the bandwagon thing. (It took me a while to read Harry Potter, for heaven's sake, just because everybody else was already doing it.) But it seems like everyone is writing a book. And I don't want to be one of those people. I can just imagine the conversation now: "Hey Ashley, what are you up to these days?" "I'm writing a book, actually." CRINGE. That's only cool to say if you're good at it. (And see how bad I am at dialogue???)

So what the heck am I doing? I ask myself this constantly. I guess I'm saying to heck with all of that and throwing caution to the wolves (yep, I just did that) and saying I'll learn along the way. And, like the lesson I learned from Harry, many people doing something isn't a good reason for me to not do it too. (Does that even make sense?) So I'm doing it.

Because the fact of the matter is this: This said idea has been weighing heavily on my mind (and gaining weight as we speak) for months now and I. Just. Can't. Shake it. It needs to be reckoned with.

Here's how it all came down. Writing a book has been a goal of mine for years and years (probably 15). This was back before I even knew I liked to write; I just thought it would be cool to write a book. But I specifically remember writing it down as one of my goals during a Relief Society lesson in college, and that was probably 10 years ago. Anyway, I've always loved to read, but some time after that lesson, I decided on majoring in English, took up editing, and have been a lover of the written word ever since. And the more I edited and the more I wrote, the more my brain started to think about writing and shaping phrases and translating thoughts and life into words—and doing it the way I liked to do it. I think about it a lot.

And then I got a story idea. Just a tiny seed of an idea. It grew slowly at first, taking years to add anything significant to it, and then this last year it seemed to take off. And now the more I think about it, the more my brain kicks in to overdrive and I make lists and lists of ideas. And they just keep coming.

I have the first line, maybe even the last one, and the first couple of chapters pretty much planned out. But I don't know what's going to happen from there. So my self-doubt was successfully keeping any progress at bay—until this last week when it was all just too much.

First I saw another post from a friend who is feverishly writing and networking and trying to get published someday. (Props to you, Julia.) Another knock on the door from the book in my brain.

And then I read again this quote by Joe Konrath that she has on her blog: "There's a word for a writer who never gives up . . . published." Argh. Another prod. But Self-Doubt was still totally winning.

I also saw a link on Julia's blog for the book Supernaturally, the sequel to Paranormalcy, the best-selling book written by a girl I went to school with. I read the first book. It was fun. And I'm so excited for her—but I'm so completely jealous of her success. So I think, "If she can do it, why can't I?" One more prod. Self-Doubt was starting to get worried.

And then I remembered this Maya Angelou quote I read a while ago that has long since rankled me: "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." Argh! I know! Or at least I'm beginning to understand.

Then I read this post from another friend, about how it is her dream to be an author. So many things resonated with me from her post, but it wasn't until I thought about it and the book and my dream for a few days and then finally made a decision (and a public comment—gasp!) on her blog, saying that I was really going to do it this year, that Self-Doubt took a huge beating.

It's still there, to be sure, but it's quieter. And kind of hiding in a corner, probably lurking until the next time my defenses are down. I've told half a dozen people or so about my plan and the more I talk about it, the more real and achievable it seems. (Although I will say that telling people about my extremely private story idea has made me feel incredibly vulnerable, but I think that if I want people to read and buy my books, I'm going to have to get used to the idea of them eventually finding out what the story is about. I'll work on it. So stay back, Self-Doubt!)

But I'm excited to have a plan and to just finally do what I've always wanted to do. Who cares if it sucks? I will have achieved my goal and I can move on from there, hopefully writing something less sucky the next time around.

So I'm aiming for somewhere between Thoreau and Total Crap. I'd like my book to be thoughtful, a little fun, and interesting to read. I think those are modest goals, but I still really don't have a clue about how I'm going to bring them to fruition. But like I said, caution to the wolves.

So here I am, climbing up the ladder to take a seat on the big author bandwagon. But I'm doing it consciously and with good reason, not just to fit in. That makes a difference, doesn't it?

Here goes everything.