It's a cold, foggy, and dreary Sunday afternoon, and I'm sitting in an East Nashville coffee shop, sipping the strongest hazelnut latte one could possibly imagine while getting my money's worth with the free broadband. Usually, the background noise works wonders for generating content at the keyboard, but today I'm drawing a blank.
I woke up early this morning, having fallen asleep a couple of hours earlier than usual last night. I put on a pot of coffee and cranked out about three or four pages of what I hope is the Foreword of my first book.
Having taken a break for a few hours and then looking at it again in the cold light of day, I'm just not satisfied. But I'm down here at the Portland Brew East, getting ready to attend a Memoirs meetup with the Nashville Writers Group, and I'm hoping somebody with more experience and talent will not only give some welcome critique, but maybe point me in the right direction, too. It's not that I'm lost, but I don't want to waste my time writing junk. I know where I want to go, I'm just not sure how to get there.
Writing is hard.
Don't let anyone tell you differently. I admire the hell out of these people that can crank out novel after novel, you know, the guys like Grisham and Baldacci who make millions selling paperbacks at Hudson News in airport terminals around the world. While I have no aspirations to take a shot at writing the Great American Novel, I'd really like to get a couple of memoirs done. And while everyone talks about how awesome it is to take that first step in journey of a thousand miles by deciding to actually write a book, nobody says shiat about that second step where you have to actually, you know, get something done and create something worth reading. Deciding to do something is easy. Actually doing it can be a real pain in the ass.
So here I sit, drinking my overpriced hazelnut-flavored motor oil, hoping that somebody I haven't met yet can steer me in the right direction.
More in a bit...