This morning, writing in my journal, I realized I’m writing the same story over and over again. Thinking about that, I remembered an interview I read with Paul Auster, where he shares a similar idea. So, I leaned over to my bookshelf, found The Art of Hunger and sure enough, there it is:
“Like it or not, all my books seem to revolve around the same set of questions, the same human dilemmas. Writing is no longer an act of free will for me, it’s a matter of survival. An image surges up inside me, and after a time I begin to feel cornered by it, to feel that I have no choice but to embrace it. A book starts to take shape after a series of such encounters.”
I’ve never written a book. Do I want to write a book?
I have my work writing, which takes up most of my time, but there is story that has been creeping in to my private writing. It shows up, goes away, slowly seeps back in. It is taking over my journal entries. I see the characters in people on the street, thoughts of how it could be constructed pass through my mind as I walk the neighborhood.
So, I’m writing it.
Will it ever be a published story? Who knows. Will it be good? Impossible to say. The truth is, I’m not at that point yet. What’s important right now? Writing.