No More Excuses

When I began writing twenty years ago with the vision of becoming a published author, I really wasn’t sure of what that meant. It was only the vague dream of a teenaged girl. Hunched in the middle of my bedroom floor stabbing the keys of my grandmother’s ghastly green portable typewriter, I spent hours turning reams of notebook paper—scrawled on both sides with chicken-scratch—into something that almost resembled a book.

Somewhere along the paths I took in life I forgot about that almost-book, as I had forgotten my dreams of becoming a writer. Oh, I still typed out little stories for myself now and then, but life always seemed to get in the way of completing anything. Boxes pregnant with story ideas slowly filled my basement and half-written tales rich with inexperience slowly filled my hard drive. Throughout the years I’d tell myself that someday I would have the time to finish those stories—once I was finished paying bills and feeding myself—as I sat down to watch hours of television. I’d tell myself that someday I would have time to write ‘The Great American Novel’—once I was finished raising my daughter and buying a house—as I curled up to read the writing of one actual author after another.

Then as I once again tried to take a stab at another novel, which would most likely end up as a forgotten file in a misplaced folder on my computer, I received a gentle push. One night someone asked me, “What would you do with your life if you could do anything?” After hemming and hawing about my future as a secretary, and skittering around the vague idea of someday breeding horses, the memory of those long-forgotten pages in my basement percolated into mind. The answer was clear. If I could do anything I wanted, I would write. “If you want to write, then write.” It was stated simply, allowing no explanations and giving no sympathy. “Quit making excuses—get it done.” Those simple words were a blinding revelation. Like an invalid, I had leaned upon a myriad of excuses. However, what had prevented me from falling on my face also prevented me from moving forward. Once I eliminated the excuses, no real reason existed to bar me from my dreams.

I have since completed that novel and then another. Whether anyone else thinks of them as accomplishments remains to be seen. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. The excuses are gone. Now I only have reasons to write. I write because I need to write almost as much as I need to breathe, because everything that I am—my values, goals, and principles—is mirrored in my work, and because not writing would mean denying a very precious piece of myself. I’ve spent too many years denying myself already. The incomplete teenage masterpiece sitting stifled in my basement is proof enough of that.