nine is my lucky number

I have 94 days left.

I’ve used up six.

I’m writing a book.

Day One was deciding to write it. Completed by lunch.

Day Two was carving out specific times to write. I made a schedule.

On Day Three I was supposed to decide what to write about. And I did.

Day Four was more of the same which was good because I actually hadn’t really decided on Day Three.

Day Five was advice. “Do not bore the reader.”

Today is Day Six. Dissect a book you love. See what makes it tick. I picked The Catcher in the Rye and have fallen in love with Holden Caulfield for the twenty-third time. “I was wondering where the ducks went when the lagoon got all icy and frozen over. I was wondering if some guy came in a truck and took them away to a zoo or something. Or if they just flew away.”

I’m going to tell you something.

I’m a little scared. I don’t need a pep talk or a pat on the back. But holy fucking shit, when writing matters, it’s terrifying.

I bet you knew that already though.

Letters are my currency. It’s comfortable to live inside them. To let them drip from my fingertips. I’ve been doing this since I could. Writing on wide ruled paper with a pencil as round as a popsicle. Telling myself stories so I could fall asleep at night. But.

Dang.

This idea. This story. It’s personal. It’s humbling. My antagonist is my real life dark cloud. To give that face and voice and body. To say hello? To invite it in?

I don’t know.

Tomorrow is Day Seven. “If you create a story that has real meaning to you, chances are it will have real meaning for the rest of us.”