One afternoon three years ago, a story came to me – an epic fantasy of a world about to be plunged into civil war. I’m not sure where it came from…it was just…there… (I tend to think God had something to do with it.)
The problem is, it just won’t go away. It was a wonderful diversion for few hours, but it has now grown into an ache inside of me – this story wants to be written.
Frankly, I’ve been trying to talk myself out of it for the past three years. It is craziness to even entertain the idea of writing a novel for three big reasons.
1. I do NOT have time to write a book.
I know how long it takes to write a book. I wrote a 130 paged, non-fiction book a few years ago. It took three years of working from **4am to 7am** so I could do it outside of all my other
obligations. Even thinking about that makes me yawn.
obligations. Even thinking about that makes me yawn.
2. I’m NOT a fiction writer.
The last time I wrote fiction was a short story in high school I scribbled out the night before it was due.
3. Writing novels DOES NOT pay the bills.
To date, I think I made about $1.50 off my other book.
I mean – let’s look at this logically:
- How many people say they want to write a book (hundreds of millions)
- How many of them say they are writing a book? (millions)
- How many of them actually start? (hundreds of thousands)
- How many of them actually finish? (tens of thousands)
- How many of those get published? (thousands)
- And how many of those actually make money doing it? (J.K Rowling, Stephen King, and one other author – I can’t remember his name.)
So, the odds aren’t good. In fact, they suck.
But, the story won’t let go of my heart.
It longs to be released.
It longs to be released.
For three years, a civil war has been raging inside myself. My creative brain longing for the story to come out. My common sense telling me it can’t be done.
Over those years, I’ve written about 100 pages of back story, character sketches, and only a few chapters. And I struggled through every word.
A couple of weeks ago, I decided to look at it differently. What if my goal wasn’t to publish the book and try to make money?
**What if my goal was simply to enjoy writing the story?**
So for the past week, I decided to simply write. I didn’t have to justify
the time I spent doing it. I didn’t have to set a goal to be
accomplished. I just wrote.
the time I spent doing it. I didn’t have to set a goal to be
accomplished. I just wrote.
118 pages later, I realize I was trying so hard to be practical I ended up being an idiot instead. In the span of one week, I almost doubled what had
previously taken me three years to create.
previously taken me three years to create.
It makes one wonder how much would have been accomplished in the last three years had I simply just written instead of worrying about whether it was practical to write.
Yeah. I’m feeling a bit F*O*O*L*I*S*H!
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The lesson here my friends is that you can be foolishly practical. What would you accomplish, enjoy, and experience if you didn’t tell yourself you couldn’t?
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Is there a crazy, fool-hearty idea that haunts you and won’t let you go? Maybe it’s to start a new business? Maybe it’s a book? Maybe it’s movie script that continues to play in your head? Could it be an idea of how to help your neighbors, or the homeless, or the broken-hearted people around you that seems impossible?
What if you did it? Not did it perfectly or even well for that matter. Your business doesn’t have to be the next Apple, your movie doesn’t have to outsell Avatar, nor do you have to be the next Mother Teresa.
What if each of us everyday, ordinary, imperfect people responded to that foolish dream inside us that refuses to die? What if we simply did it for the joy of letting it out? What if we embrace a bit of foolishness today to see what happens?
