I went out for a walk in the woods with a good friend at the weekend – a much needed escape from “normal” for an hour – accompanying her dog as he wandered this way and that. Along the way we talked about anything and everything.
She’s a writer. A good writer. The best writer I know. We laughed about me commenting on a social media post recently to that affect – about me immediately digging an enormous hole for myself. She replied “the only writer you know”.
I know how to dig holes for myself. I’m good at it. So good that I realise when I’m standing with spade in hand, and gently place it back down before starting.
While wandering along talking about writing, stories, characters, plots, and everything inbetween, she said “You should write a novel”.
I laughed it off at the time, but a quiet corner of my brain has been turning her words over ever since.
Maybe I should try to write a novel.
The quantity of words doesn’t scare me at all – on a good day I can turn a tap on in my fingers and pour thousands of words into the keyboard. Sure, they might be utterly forgettable, but now and again they might arrange themselves into something relatively presentable.
I don’t know.
It’s one more thing, isn’t it. Another pie for another finger. Something else to not finish. But then if I don’t start, how do I know if I’ll finish?
Maybe my reluctance is fear. Can I really do it?