This year I told myself: “Let’s be ambitious. Let’s write a book.” In truth, I had spent a large part of my life running away from the idea. Experience has taught me that any time a writer says she’s a writer, a book is expected – almost demanded – from them. But to commit to multiple pages and chapters is such a daunting task that the mere idea of it makes me want to curl up in a corner and cry. There’s a dedication that comes with writing a book that is parallel to signing a marriage contract and I was never sure if I had the backbone for either.
Then one day I thought: “Hey. Maybe.” And that was that.
Writing your own book isn’t as difficult as it used to be back when the only viable option was to find a publisher who didn’t think your story was complete and utter crap. Trivia: JK Rowling was rejected 12 times and told not to quit her day job before The Sorcerer’s Stone was finally picked up. Yup, it’s a harsh world out there. Thankfully, being a part of the internet age now allows every aspiring novelist a shot at self-publishing via different platforms. (Wattpad, Lulu and Kindle, for starters.) In fact, self-publishing is now the preferred route for some since it is highly customizable: without the pressure of a publisher and editor breathing down your neck, you’re free to work at your own pace.
It is not the friendliest option, however, for a lazy person.
I am lazy. In high school, I told a friend that I wished someone would invent a machine that could breathe for me. I am that lazy. When I made the decision to do it, to actually go out there and write a book, I told no one. Better to keep the shame of failing to myself in case I decided to bail on the project altogether – an unattractive quality of lazy people, by the way.
But shortly after, my friends met up to share about all the ways their lives were moving forward and, in an effort to show them that I, too, had big plans, I eagerly let the news loose. They reacted with generous servings of joy and excitement and in that moment, I felt great. But in telling I had actually managed to effectively dig my own grave.
A month after sharing about my decision to write a book, my friends saw me again and asked the dreaded question: “So. How’s your book going?” My face went white. The document entitled “Isa’s Book” remained empty and untouched, rotting away in some folder in my computer, a canvas left blank. I had forgotten that telling people you were going to do something came with a clause: actually doing it. By telling them about my personal project, I had made it real. I am now officially accountable to these people. Which sucks. Every so often they will check in with me about it and I will shoot back with a vague, non-committal answer that will keep them off my back until they ask again.
I am not writing the book I should be writing for the same reason I am not married. Let me explain:
Last night I had dinner with a friend of mine who had just gotten back from her honeymoon.
“Marriage,” she told me over sandwiches and coffee, “is different. It’s not better, it’s not worse; it just has its own sorrows and joys.” As a single woman, I knew that this was a conversation I could learn from so I listened quietly.
“I realize now,” she continued, “that you’re never really ready.” I raised an eyebrow.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You’re never really ready. There is no exam you can take that’ll determine whether you will become a good wife or not,” she explained.
“Then how will I know?” I asked, aghast.
“You’ll know it’s time when you’re ready to commit to that life. When you’re ready to devote yourself to another person. When you’re ready to die to yourself.”
I bring this up now because marriage, I realize, has everything to do with choosing to rearrange your entire life for another person. It is highly inconvenient and yet, for some reason, people do it anyway. What I am sure off is that there is a payoff to marriage. It’s just one that I am not yet ready to gamble my personal freedom on.
The book, with only one chapter roughly completed, is the same way.
The reason I am not writing the book that I’m supposed to be writing is because I can’t handle the commitment it takes to finish it. I’m all for the thrill of starting, whether in personal endeavors or newfound romance, but give me the task of navigating through endlessly unpredictable terrain, sleepless nights and moments of disillusionment and I flounder.
I’m sitting in a café now, doing twenty different things that don’t involve writing a book. If you ask me about marriage, I will tell you that I won’t always be unready. What I know for sure is this: somewhere along the way, I want to love something so much that I take the million steps needed to see it through. Something like that exists, I’m sure. Something bigger than laziness.
In the meantime, the would-be book sits in my desktop, biding its time. It knows that one day I will say ‘I do.’
