In 1993, I had my first idea for a novel. I sketched it out in my head and I might have even written down a few details. But I didn’t start writing it. It sat in my mind, collecting mental dust and gathering theoretical cobwebs, and it sits in that place even today.
Over the past 30-plus years, I’ve had at least 10 more ideas for novels and each one of them took their place on the bookshelf of my mind. That is, until this past May. That’s when I started promising that I’d actually write one of those novels. And I didn’t make the promise just to myself – I started telling other people, too.
Every teacher will tell you that they get countless questions about their plans every year when the summer is approaching. Folks ask, “What are you going to do with your summer?” I’ve wondered if the queries come out of jealousy (because they covet what looks like an endless vacation), nosiness (because they think you might fritter away the months on TV and video games) or out of genuine curiosity (because they have no clue what they’d do with a couple of free months). It’s probably a combination of all of those. But this year, when I fielded those unsolicited questions I told people, “I’m going to write a novel.” It became so common for me that eventually, I didn’t even wait until the question was asked. I just told people straight up, “I’m going to write a novel.”
Of course, then I actually had to do it. The goal was to have it finished by the end of the summer because I knew that once school started back, it would be close to impossible to find the time to write. That two-month goal was the hard part. I started writing on June 13 (about a week after school ended) and between then and August 7 (when I went back for pre-planning), I had written 154 pages – roughly 70 pages shy of my eventual rough draft total. The first two-thirds took less than two months. The last third took another two months, and it was carved out of nooks and crannies of my time, which was now split between home, school, church and my side job refereeing high school football.
I even grew a beard so that people would know that I was writing. I told them it was my inner Hemingway and that they’d know I finished once the beard was shaved. Sure enough, when I finished the first draft and shaved the beard, the questions changed to, “You shaved your beard? So you finished the book? Can I read it?” But if I hadn’t made that public time commitment, I don’t think I would have gotten any of it done.
(And, yes, when it’s finished, you can have a copy. I’ll make sure to post here how to buy one on Amazon, Barnes and Noble or any other place where books are sold!)
