While my primary writing groups exist online, I do occasionally manage to get to the library for the local writers' group. This is a fun bunch, though none professionals. That's okay, though. No problems there. Now, most of them are poets, which doesn't give me a whole lot of input, but that's okay, too. (I totally don't get poetry, by the way. What makes one thing poetry when it doesn't rhyme, doesn't have beat, and isn't even really a metaphor is beyond me, but that's why I write fiction.)
So at writers' group the other night, we got to talking about how everyone wants to be a writer. "I could write a book," we hear a lot. Okay, I say, so do it. It's a long, lonely, thankless process that, for some unknown reason, a lot of us feel compelled to go through.
A year or so ago, a friend of mine wanted to write a book with me. With. Me. Now let's set aside for a moment that I like the solitude of writing and that I don't play well with others. Because of the circumstances that my friend had found himself in, I figured he needed a new outlet, so I decided to encourage him. "Give me an outline," I told him. "Better yet, start it, see where you go with it, and then I will take a look and make my input."
As I figured, about a month into the process, he lost momentum and quit. Unfortunately, this is the way often for people who try to write a novel. See, no one really wants to write a book. People want to have written a book.
When I finished my first novel, I thought I should be excited. And I was, just not as much as I thought I would be. When I finished my second, it was rather and anti-climax. Now I've finished my fourth, and I am honestly rather unfazed by it. Now when I finally sell…
…it probably won't be as good as I thought it was going to be. Oh well. I'm willing to take that risk!