The book. The bookity bookity book. Stroll down my sidebar and you’ll discover that almost all of them are writing / have completed a novel. Belle has a media sensation awaiting her kiss and tell memoirs. Wendy has pounded out a manuscript and took a picture of it before she passed out - just to prove it really happened. The Little Hedonist, he’s writing one. The eminent Dooce, yup her too. And the list doesn’t even include the thirty or so books that Wil Wheaten publishes every month. Lotsa books.
So where does a punk kid like me get off thinking he can write one? Not only have these talented writers put pen to paper but, before them, even non-bloggers Dickens, Austen, Rushdie and the like published a tome or two.
I’ve always wanted to write. While other kids were out skimming rocks and scribbling graffiti about Jenny Macintyre, I was sitting on the roof of our house working on the second chapter of my novel. It was a story about two children who discover a cave where a civilisation of lizard people have been hibernating since white settlers arrived in New Zealand. It was cunningly going to dissect both the Pakeha (white) and Maori (native) cultures as the lizard folk struggle to find their identity in a modern world. I was twelve and liked the idea that if it was good enough, I’d be one of the youngest writers EVER. That’s the sort of thing that got me excited as a kid – not going to the Moon or becoming a fireman – having a book signing before my 13th birthday. I was a strange kid.
I didn’t finish but I still have my first draft somewhere. I lost my writing bravado during my teenage years, especially as I became more excited about acting. But it creeped back and it’s been building ever since.
That doesn’t really answer the question though. Why am I attempting it? Because I have this book-sized idea. And I don’t think anyone else is going to write it for me.