Release the idea of getting rich or famous and focus on your craft

RSS Feed

​Ruby, my dog, has an internal clock that chimes at exactly four o’clock every afternoon alerting her that it’s time for a walk.
“Let’s see if we can get past Bob,” I say as I struggle to slip the leash over her head because she is dancing with pre-walk glee. Bob is my neighbor and has an international best seller brewing in his brain. He is forever pressing me for the secret to getting published or suggesting that I ghost-write his novel.
“You ready to get started on my book yet?” Bob calls out when he catches sight of Ruby tugging me past his yard. Dried leaves crunch as he walks towards the street.
“It’s hard enough getting my own words on paper, much less yours,” I retort. “You need to write that book yourself.” 
Bob lobs his rake from hand to hand so that it passes before his face like a windshield wiper. 
“Exactly how hard is it to find an agent?” he asks for the third time this month. I can’t decide if he is teasing me or not, so I ignore the question.
“Have you started writing yet?” I ask.
“No. It’s still in the idea stage, and work has been crazy.” He pushes the rim of his glasses up his nose. 
“What’s the plot?” I ask. Ruby roots around, sniffing at the grass at the base of his mailbox.
“How do I know you won’t steal my idea?” He pulls the rake to his shoulder and steps back. 
“It’s hard for me to write your book if I don’t know the characters or plot points.” I chuckle, then repeat the advice I’ve given him ten times prior. “Start working on an outline, then a first draft.” Ruby and I begin walking away.
“How long will that take?” He asks.
“A few months,” I shrug. “A year?” How many times do we need to rehash the same conversation?
“I don’t have that long,” he calls after me.
“See you later.” I wave.
“I don’t have time to write his book for him,” I mumble to Ruby, who pants back at me.
Reading taught me how to write. By the time I was forty I’d read approximately three books a month for thirty years. Through literary osmosis I learned story structure, pacing, and characterization. Once I discovered that I loved to write I took classes and attended conferences where I signed up for critiques and pitch sessions. I joined a critique group and bravely read my work aloud every week, only to have my fellow writers tell me to cut out unnecessary descriptions and dialogue. Quickly, I learned to edit and rewrite. Once I got my first draft complete, my critique partner congratulated me then told me to start the second draft from scratch. The discoveries I made about myself while working on my novel were innumerable. I became more observant. When it rained, I ran outside and held my face to the sky taking note of how the raindrops splattered against my cheeks and ran over my jaw in rivulets down my neck. I began to listen, rather than speak. The universe placed fascinating people and hurdles in my way, leading me in new directions. At some point, at a writer’s conference, an editor suggested to the audience that we focus on our craft, and publication would follow. That simple advice rang true for me. Once I released the idea of getting published and made the craft of writing my priority, my writing leveled up. The more I write, the better I get.