I went to the bookstore this week and something happened.
It smelled different.
Much different.
All of it.
Since I was in grade school, I’ve always walked into bookstores and absorbed the smell. The ink, the printing, the covers, and now the coffee. All of it combined made a smell that rattled my soul,
I imagined over the years coming the bookstore and seeing my name on a shelf. Seeing my book there, and people passing it, glancing at the cover, and maybe even picking it up.
But there was always one problem with this fantasy. I had no book. I had never created anything. So for 25 years, I just daydreamed. That’s all. I daydreamed.
Since I’m a public speaker, I imagined what it would be like to get up on stage and speak about the book that I wrote. I visualized having a suit on, and having a panel of young minds that are excited to ask me questions about the plot of my novel, the genre I choose, where I got my ideas, and where they should go to get theirs.
But in November, something happened.
My idea of success changed. My idea of being a novelist, and sitting there signing autographs and speaking about my book, while all of it seemed amazing, it paled in comparison to what really happened to me on November 1.
On November 1, I released the creative in me that had been hidden for decades. He came and controlled my behavior, even if only for a handful of sacred moments in my office at the keyboard. I came to life. I felt like I just unwrapped a gift that someone gave me years ago. It’s grown older, but its value has only appreciated. God gave me that gift, and I locked it away for so long. Too long.
But on November 1, I became a fiction writer. I became a novelist. A professional too. Yes, I am a professional novelist. How do I dare qualify such a statement, you ask?
First, I did it every day no matter how I felt. There were cold mornings that I got out of bed after being up late the night before, and I sat my professional self in front of my computer, and I watched my inner creative boss put the rest of my being under submission. I let my desire to write a book take over the desire to relax or sleep in for a little longer.
Secondly, I made it known. Alongside the novel, I wrote a blog where I detailed things that I was learning about being a writer every day. I made it known that I was going to have a novel, 50,000 words written by the end of November. If I failed, I would fail publicly. Regardless of how few people read my little blog, I knew if one person read it, it was one person I owed an explanation to for not finishing.
Third, I started to think of what’s next. That’s important. Before, I always looked at writing “the book.” I was more concerned about producing that thing – that perfect artifact that has been incubating in me. Truth be told, the book I wrote is no where near what I expected it to be. The idea I had didn’t even materialize until November 1, and now it’s coming to a close.
But I began to ask the question what’s next.
This is significant because I looked at the production of a book as not just an event, but an ongoing process. I didn’t produce a book in November.
I produced a book writer. I produced an author.
A professional novelist ready for the next world to create.
Finally, I didn’t hit 50,000 words in 30 days. I wrote just shy of 80,000 words. The challenge that I told myself I’d never be able to accomplish, I passed through it, and at the 50,000 word mark, when I celebrated the win of NaNoWriMo, I was more captivated by this singular idea: I wanna know how it ends. I care about that more than winning.
Yes, I’m a novelist. Full-blown fiction writer. I am going to publish it, too. I absolutely am. And if one person reads it, and hates it, my job is done. I fulfilled a deep longing that God placed upon me that up until this moment I’ve been disobedient in pursuing. I believed that it had to be compartmentalized as a part of my faith, because I couldn’t see how writing a fiction book would fit into my day job. But when I realized it couldn’t, I didn’t care. I wrote anyway.
Because I’m a writer. And writers write. Sometimes bad, sometimes good, but always they do. They keep writing. And I didn’t realize how easy it would be to assume the role that I should have been wearing for my whole existence.
Now what about you? Are you a writer? Are you an artist? Then do it. And don’t do it for money! I’m not saying that you have to give up your day job and sit in your room until that novel’s produced. This was the busiest and most tiresome month of my life, but I’ve never felt more alive. And when you have passion producing something you’re creating, you’ll do it regardless of how you feel. It won’t be perfect. Not even close.
But it’s yours.
That bookstore smells different because I’m different. I still envision signing a copy fo a book for someone, but now I realize that the win happened the moment that I sat in my office on November 1, and created a world that didn’t exist at the end of October.
You can’t monetize that. It’s intangible. But it’s attainable.
And it’s mine.