There’s a book I need to write, and I’m terrified to begin, so I thought I’d write about writing here for a while instead. It’s my favorite form of procrastination, writing about writing. It’s very satisfying.
Why am I afraid? Because it’s autobiographical. Sort of. I have no intention of writing a memoir; I never thought my life was interesting enough to be written down. I never even thought it was interesting enough to inspire a story, until last week. Like a bolt of lightning, I got in my car and In Your Eyes came on the radio and suddenly I was 18 again and it all felt very raw and, truly, like lightning, I realized that I had to write it down. I had to put some memories on a page.
Everyone has a great story to tell about being 18. Or 17, 16, thereabouts. There is a reason there are so many great books, movies, songs, about that time. Emotions boil just below the surface, often overflowing, and reason has not set in. Fertile grounds.
I think what really proved to me that I need to write it is because it scares the hell out of me. The scarier something is, the closer you are to the truth. Right? Something like that? Not sure what to do? Do the thing that scares you. Within reason of course. Don’t go squirrel suiting any time soon.
Who knows if this book will ever see the light of day, or the lacquer of a bookshelf. It may stall out like so many other well-intentioned projects. But today I began it, and I already feel my fingers tingling. Something is working its way out onto the page.