Am I writing a book yet?

It started with a quote I heard from Alice Walker when describing her artistic process for Urban Style (an entertainment program highlighting Black personalities), “If I write a page or two a day, then at the end of the year, I’ll have a book.” When I heard that, it hit me like a bolt of lightning—I’ve been going about this all wrong. I’ve wanted to be an author all my life, but I’ve allowed myself to become overwhelmed by the idea of writing a book. It just seemed like such a huge thing to write a book. So I allowed my insecurities to stop me from pursuing it. But seeing someone who’s managed the task successfully—not to mention repeatedly—break it down so simply put it into new perspective for me. I guess it’s similar to Rome not having been built in a day. Anything worth doing is worth taking your time and doing right. I’m out of clichés, so I hope my point has been made. If I just take this a page at a time, I can accomplish something really special.

The problem is, just what should I write? I still like the idea of a semi-autobiographical fictional spy novel called Just Smart Enough to be Dangerous, but lately it’s been suggested to me that my daily internet ramblings could be compiled in a coffee table book. The working title is Brain Sharts from Uncle Trey Pound but that’s open to negotiation. See, with my ADD-addled brain, I’ve got ideas firing with every waking moment. Sometimes I’ll have to text myself an idea just to make sure I’ll remember it later. I’ve also been known to email myself a phrase in the middle of the night because I got an idea that I knew I’d be able to use in my writing. I’ve considered overlapping Crash-style plotlines; I tossed around the concept of a Beverly Cleary-style coming-of-age novel; I’ve debated short stories versus a memoir. Then I ridiculed myself for thinking I had anything relevant or important enough to say to justify writing a memoir. Then I beat myself up for ridiculing myself. The shame-spiral ended in vodka, and let’s just leave it at that. That’s when the genius switch in my brain clicked on (I love it when that happens) and I realized that the best way to tell a story (which is the goal of any author) is to tell a story with which I’m familiar. So that means it’s going to involve some element of my own life. And since it’s going to involve my life, then it’s going to involve copious amounts of alcohol and sexual excess—but I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. In fact, I can recall several books I’ve read (and loved) that featured alcoholism and sexual depravity as key plot components. In retrospect, that may be why I enjoyed them, but that’s neither here nor there.

But the type of book I attempt (very important word that one, “attempt”) almost doesn’t matter. What matters more is embracing the adventure. Living isn’t just about living to see another day—though some beg to differ. I believe life is more about the adventures that make said life worth living. Speaking in clichés, life is defined by the moments that take your breath away. And the idea that I could write a book takes my breath away. The idea that I might put words on paper, and that someone else might read those words—on purpose—makes me slightly dizzy.