The Undiscovered Country

To The Heart of Things

What often drives me to write this blog is you. You make me laugh, you make me cry, and you make me think. Whenever I see a new comment, I can't help but smile in eager anticipation, but also a smidgen of trepidation.

It's one thing to spout my opinions all over this page. That's easy. The challenge comes is when you make me think - to see things from a different point of view.

Enter Nada who commented thusly on my last entry:

I suppose it all boils down to how much you want the dream. It seems to me you have a passion for writing, and only YOU can make this happen...if you really want it. That is the true question.

I read the comment before I left for home, and I considered the question during both plane rides. That's a lot of thinking time.

How much do I want to publish? I can easily say I want it more than anything, but am I being completely honest when I say it? Does every fiber of who I am want this?

Yes, I have a passion for writing, but is that passion enough? Sure if not for that passion, I wouldn't have the motivation to hone my craft, but have I worked hard enough? Do I still have a lot more to learn?

Aside: I will always have a lot more to learn. I will never be the best I can be, and that's a good thing. As with any art, there will always be room for improvement. The moment I think I've reached the top of that mountain, my writing journey has nowhere else to go but downward. That's no place for any writer to be, especially one who wants others to read what she writes, and for them to enjoy reading those words.

Have I not yet "paid all my dues" to get where I need to be?

As for the last question, I can't answer, because that's a matter of time. I can't know when I've paid my dues until after I've paid them.

The only way to answer the question about how badly I want to see my books published is by asking the opposite question. Can I give it up? And be happy about it?

Try holding your breath. No one can do it for long without the body soon screaming from the top of the head to the tips of the toes for that life-giving air. Soon, no matter how long you fight it, the body wins. It will get its air, even if you hold your breath long enough to pass out.

That's how much writing means to me. To not attempt to publish my words would be akin to holding my breath until I die. It's simply not possible.

As another aside, I sent off the first three chapters of my manuscripts off to the agent today. I admit to a short bout of nausea when I did. Now that I've taken this step, this dream is (for now) out of my hands, and in the hands of someone else. Scary, but I'm not holding my breath.