For some mind-rending reason, I have stuck in my head that I want to write a book. This idea of writing a book started as a creative outlet, evolved into an itch, and has now become a thunder cloud hanging over me.
I wouldn’t say it’s my calling in life because I haven’t given everything up in pursuit of it, but I feel like until I’ve actually done it, I won’t be at peace with myself. I come home from work everyday thinking I have more work to do, and I can’t play a video game or see friends without feeling like I’m procrastinating. Do you know how that feels?? I’m thirty years old, eight years removed from the last time I had to do homework or take a test, and I can’t shake the feeling that I have an obligation to Microsoft Word.
Sometimes I think it’s persistence, other times I think it’s OCD, but I often like/need to finish what I start. There’s a fear whenever I pick up a book, particularly a nice thick one, that I won’t get into it, but I’ll be stuck “reading” it (note: you should trust your instinct if it’s saying that a book on the UK postal system will be boring). Depending on how turned off I am by the book, I’ll either skim pages, read every other paragraph, or just flip the pages to know that I got from one cover to the other. The only problem is that I can’t apply that same philosophy with this book project only because I still have some semblance of pride, and I want to write something readable rather than dump a bunch of random words on the page.
Press on. Godspeed. Just do it. Perhaps I’ll feel more settled after I finish, or more likely I’ll find another long-term project to complain about. In either case, that’s just another bridge to cross when I get there. In the meanwhile, I’ll operate under the premise that this feeling is a blessing in disguise – much more palatable that way.