9/18/2018 – One Week In

I feel like my life is a bit of a piñata right now. I’d always dreamt of publishing a book, and here I am at the cusp of 24 looking the sum of my work for the past few years in the face. It’s here. It happened. And it feels so good.

In honor of this, I thought I’d share some of my thoughts on writing, and what it takes to become a writer.

First thing first, let me start by saying, it is not an easy task. But as you watch your story unfold and come to life in front of you, all the struggles become worth it.

Take the piñata for example. Strip it of its colors and frilly papers, take away the streamers and bows, and you have a rather ugly looking wad of cardboard. It’s raw, it’s dull. Defined in some places, but lacking in many others.

How do we take this rudimentary structure and transform it into something better?

Have you ever noticed that most piñatas are covered in layer after layer of paper? Somebody could’ve easily just painted over the base, but instead they chose to make the painstaking effort to wrap the thing in endless strips of easily ripped paper.

Writing takes work. You need to do it often. Every day if you can. Over and over again. That draft you wrote? Draft it again. That idea you have? Journal it. The characters and worlds you build need to breath within the pages you write, constantly changing and evolving. Only through this extensive and repetitive process, will you be able to create something incredible.

I know it’s not much in the ways of earth-shattering insight. It’s probably something you’ve heard before. But here’s the simply truth, that’s what I did. And it worked.

Your dreams are possible. Go for them. Shoot for them as hard as you can. Don’t let anything deter you. If you only knew just how close you are to reaching your goals, you wouldn’t think twice about the journey to get there.

I’m gonna go smash a piñata now.

 

9/10/2018 – Day-Before Jitters

I can’t believe it’s actually here! My book is getting released tomorrow, and soon everyone will be able to buy and read my children’s story.

It’s almost strange. You spend all this time fussing over every line, changing and rearranging each sentence until you come up with the perfect line only to scrap it and start all over. You add characters, give them stories and breath, then decide their overall presence in the story is entirely fluff and cut them out completely. You draft, and plot, outline, draft, edit, proofread and draft again. You doodle during your day job. You illustrate well into the night. You re-draw the same character so many times, you could make twelve-volume set of pictures detailing the progress from concept to finished design, and still not have it down yet. You format, and frame. You do all you can to make this the most amazing book ever.

And then in an instant, the project that has become more of a child to you than an endeavor, is released. Out into the world it is deployed, with nothing you can do or say about it. It floats into the great unknown for everybody to see – and hopefully – to enjoy. You watch it go, clinging to the edge of your seat as the silence of anticipation surrounds you.

Only slightly nerve-racking.

It’s good, though. The anticipation, that is. After all, it is an indication of how much I love this book, is it not? If I didn’t feel so greatly for this intimate work of mine, I would not then truly want it to be the best it can be. The anticipation, though uncomfortable, shows I have done a good job. I have given it my all. I have put myself out there, and will not retreat.

Good, bad, or ugly, any response I eventually receive will be treasured. All my life I’ve been told how much talent I have as a writer. Time to test it. I both tremble and exult in the idea that somebody may not like my work. For it will shape me into a better writer. Show me how to truly improve. It will build my character, as I in turn create others. It’s scary, and insanely vulnerable. But how else does one grow, than by fire?

So here’s to tomorrow. But not just for my book’s release. But for the tomorrows of my successes and failures. For the school papers, and rent payments. For the solo auditions and parenting flops. For all my tomorrows, there are day before jitters. But at least I can know that as I shakily reach for the summit, I have done all I can.

9/6/2018 – My Printer-Paper Fish Story

I’ve always wanted to be an author. However my journey to becoming one was anything but straight foreword.

I still remember the first story I ever wrote. I had scribbled out a few mashed-up sentences on printer paper I’d cut into the shape of a fish. It told the story of a little sea creature with many colorful scales that he handed out to his fellow sea-dwelling friends.

My first completely original work! I was so proud. It was all my own and not at all influenced by a coincidentally similar character, in a similar plot, of a similar book… that we’d just read in my kindergarten class.

Either way, I was proud of my work. And I knew deep down, I was meant to be a writer. This little story was me. It was me putting myself into the art of writing. I had a connection with my character that I felt, for some unknown reason, needed to be told. It was innocent and pure, and reflected who I was in a way my 5 year old brain couldn’t quite comprehend.

Soon elementary school turned to middle school, and middle school to high school. From high school to a mission, and a mission to college.

All along the way, I had ideas burning ferociously in my mind. Fueled with an over-active imagination, I wrote down story after story, trying to jot down every thought that came into my distracted head. But none were as good as my printer-paper fish story. I could never finish. They all had half-baked plots, based mostly off of cool action scenes I saw in movies. I never felt satisfied with my characters. Flat traits and cardboard personalities I assigned to every werewolf, dragon, and mystical teenager I invented. Nothing felt solid. Everything was a mask. And idealistic view of what I thought were those subjects, those characters, those plots.

Beneath my desire to write were homework assignments, high school drama, part-time job woes, financial struggles, pre-mission inadequacies, and how-am-I-an-adult-already jitters. I was living a normal, everyday, rollercoaster life, but my writing was staying stagnant.

It wasn’t until I joined a storytelling class in college, that I finally started to break the chain.

We had an assignment at the end of the semester where we needed to write a self narrative in children’s book format, complete with illustrations, and present it to the class as our final.

This was wonderful. I thrived with this idea. I personified different experiences in my life with the characters. Each would represent a trial I had overcome. And as they worked through their respective adventures, my life events in turn were revealed. I was finally telling my own story.

Eventually I went on to publish “Prayers in the Night.” However, as I’m learning it, success doesn’t necessarily come from the fact that I have a book published, it comes from being able to share myself in a way that I can be proud of.