“To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence.”

Mark Twain

Check and check, Mr. Twain. Ignorant of the craft of writing, confident in my own ability to do anything, absolutely ANYTHING, I have to say that there is nothing more humbling than trying to do something big, then not quite succeeding as quickly as you assumed you would. I’m an impatient person. So impatient, that 2.3 seconds ago I wrote ‘inpatient’ and debated going back to fix it. Ok, that story was a lie. Sometimes I lie about things that happen to me. In this way I am like James Frey, except without a publisher or book deal or a Oprah Book Club autobiography based on a mountain of lies.

Back to my impatience: I finished The Palace Sweeper. I like it. But would I read it if I picked it up in a Barnes & Noble (public library)? I don’t know. Maybe not. Even if I did, that’s no tribute to me, because I’m not a great reader. I’ve been reading countless literary agent blogs lately. Countless. And I have to say…I don’t get it. I don’t get the stuff they like. I ABHOR chick lit, so much that I capitalize ABHOR instead of just writing ‘dislike.’ And most of the agents I stalk eat that stuff up. And as for my genre of choice, young adult, mmmmm, not so much. You have no idea how many teenage vampire bounty hunter love triangle type stories are out there. Neither do I. I just made that genre up.

Once more, back to me and my impatience. STOP DERAILING ME. I get this sense of panic every now and then (every ten minutes) when it comes to writing. On the one hand, I love to write. I cherished the hours I crept away with my little notebook to handwrite my little story. On the second and much heavier hand, I get b-o-r-e-d working on the same project for seven months. And the thought of putting another seven, or eight, or thirty-three months on the same project terrifies me. Why? Probably because I’m flighty and shallow. Or maybe because I’m not sure I have a re-write in me.

Will, who is not a writer, but knows me very well, keeps me in check. “I can’t re-write this thing!” I screamed/whimpered upon realizing The Palace Sweeper wasn’t as good as it could be (something he realized a week before.) He reminded me, nicely, that doing something right isn’t always about doing it quickly. Damn the bastard with his earthy common sense. Sometimes I swear I’m married to Morgan Freeman.

Look at him…judging me with his earthy, wise eyes. Judging me, I tell you. STOP IT, MORGAN FREEMAN! I’M DOING MY BEST! So thanks to Willgan FreemanHarrison, I’m back to the beginning of the journey. Which is definitely the scary part. Writing a novel is easy, y’all. Writing a nuanced novel worthy of an intellectual reader’s attention….not so easy. And now that I’m no longer ignorant of the work required, or overly confident in my ability to do it, I’m cursing Mark Twain for calling me out in the first place.

I hate you, Mark Twain. I hate you. And you, too, Morgan Freeman.