I'm going to let you in on a little secret.
Every time I start a book--or even think about starting a book--it feels impossible.
How on earth am I ever going to take this character, this idea, and make it an entire book?
How on earth am I going to generate enough content?
How on earth am I going to capture all of these ephemeral, fickle threads and weave them together into a narrative that makes sense?
How on earth is this blank Word document ever going to turn into something with weight and substance, something that is real?
How on earth have I done this six times before, because writing books?
Until I start.
And then we get to the stage I'm in--with a completed manuscript. A hugely flawed, messy manuscript. I know what I want it to be, what it should be. I even know most of what needs to happen to get it there. But sitting in front of this document of sixty-three-thousand-words, sixty-three-thousand-RUINED-AND-AWFUL-AND-TOTALLY-FLAWED-words, it feels impossible.
How will I ever pull it apart and stitch it back together?
How will I ever get this maddening story to be what I feel it is, what I know it can be?
How will I ever find the time to dig into it, to let it come alive in my brain again, to recreate those parts that need to be recreated and to save those parts that are worth saving, and to know the difference?
How will I ever make this pile of words into a book?
Until I start.
Everything about writing feels impossible to me, all the time, until I am actually doing it. I suppose that's part of the magic and miracle of books. They're completely impossible, except for when they aren't.