What forest? The one behind all those trees?
I was out to dinner with a good friend last night. I told him about my recent feeling of restlessness and my desire to escape the corporate grind. “I just wish I could make a living writing,” I moaned. He nodded sympathetically.
I explained why I feel the way I do, content with my new position and new boss, but still wishing I were doing something more creative. I told him how the stories in my head need to be told. They want to be told. I explained that I think I’m a competent storyteller, and he agreed, nodding again. He was a good listener, kind and supportive.
I finished my tale of woe, the working class man’s struggle for deeper meaning and all that shit. Then he asked slowly and gently, “You want to write?”
“Yes,” I said with profound desire resonating in the single word.
“Well, then,” he said, “I think you should…write.”
He asked if I was working on the book. No. How about the blog? Nuh-uh. Journaling? Doing research? Story boards? Doodling? Nope.
He wasn’t insulting in his feedback. Really, he was only telling me what I already knew, what my girlfriend has told me many times, what I needed to hear again from another voice. If you want to accomplish something, start making moves toward it. You aren’t going to finish a book, he said, without working on each and every chapter, page by page, paragraph by paragraph.
He was right.