My quest to become another failed novelist.

I think if you're going to be a junkie, "adrenaline junkie" is a good choice. That's been my choice in the past few years. It's a very easy drug to take. Here's how you get hooked on it:

1. Wait for your brain to say, "That is scary. No. No. No. We're not doing that. Are you insane?"
2. Say, out loud, "Okay. Let's do it."
3. Experience the wondrous discomfort of being scared out of your wits, realizing you probably aren't going to die, then enjoying the ride.

     I clearly haven't died yet. Though that would be cool, right? Ghost bloggers? I'd read a ghost's blog... Anyway, I haven't died yet, so I keep seeking adventures that will elevate my blood pressure a bit.
     At first, I was mainly choosing physically terrifying feats, like parasailing and climbing Mayan ruins with very limited safety features. But these are actually pretty easy. They require very little of your own contributions; you're trapped once you make the decision to do it, and then you just shrug and trust that you'll get through it. So I've moved on to a more personal (and in some ways more scary) challenge: 
     Expressing myself.
     First, I agreed to teach a copyediting class. Through the whole interview process I convinced myself that I wasn't really afraid of public speaking. I had done it in school and made it through without any major mishaps; this would be pretty much the same. Then the day came for my first class. 
I couldn't sleep the night before. I spent the day nearly barfing. (Literally swallowing repeatedly to keep my lunch down. I went out and bought Alka-Seltzer at lunchtime.) When I finally arrived at the classroom, not as early as I'd hoped because I went down the wrong hallway looking for it, sweating and actually grateful it was a hot day since I'd have been terror-sweating regardless, I felt more alarmed than I had in stingray-filled waters, more freaked than while swinging through trees on a zip line.
     It's scary to do things where your body is on the line. But when your brain is on the line? Your reputation? Your self-esteem? The entirety of your adult career? Holy shit.
     I got through that class with a mix of my strengths: Humor and self-deprecation. I've gotten through four more, each a little less horrible than the last, but honestly I'm depressed by my incompetence. 
     Hey, look, a paycheck! This isn't so bad, after all.
     One of the perks that sold me on accepting the instructor position was the chance to audit two courses per semester taught. My cheapskate brain said, Hey, take two classes and that's like another $1,000. You can't turn that down! So I pored over the course catalog. 
     My first choice: languages. The only available sections aren't starting until mid-July. Hmm...
     I looked for an acting class. Nothing that fit my schedule... Singing? Music? Nope... What about writing? I have never felt comfortable writing anything creative--I feel trite and derivative. So a course called "Can I Really Write?" really appealed to me. I sent the audit form, got accepted, and started spending Saturdays with a lovely group of women, learning to push past the self-doubt and just write. 
     I can't say that I've found my muse yet. But I have an idea for a novel, and one day, while meeting with my writing group from class, I decided to let the main character speak through me.
     It's not bad! I don't think I'm a great writer, but I think my voice is somewhat distinctive. So I've vowed that I'm not going to give up on this project. I'm going to dedicate some time to it, I'm going to aim for 30 pages a month, and maybe by New Year's Day I'll have a first draft. 
     So why am I wasting time blogging?
     Well, a large part of being a writer is simply WRITING. Getting out of your head and putting thoughts down. I figure having a blog again will help me do that. I'll document my struggles to get this thing finished, my thoughts on the process, and so on. 
     Also, if I declare to the world that I'm writing a novel, I will look like a loser if I don't.
     Why am I calling myself a "failed novelist" already? Because I've found my biggest obstacle is believing that perfection is the only way to go. If I sit here and try to write a novel that will not only get published but win every award in the universe, I'm not going to get anywhere.
     So I'm going to write a novel. Perhaps I'll be the only one to read it. Lucky me.