Sometimes I feel like I’m always waiting for the perfect moment to write the Novel I have in my head.
I’ll start when I’m done with this project, I tell myself. But when one work project ends, another begins. My so-called masterpiece (only in my head) goes unwritten.
What I do have though, are the pieces I’ve written in stolen moments.
In a two-hour frenzy the night before a submission deadline. Scribbled into my notebook in between tasks. Punched hurriedly into my phone in the wee hours of the morning before I roll into bed.
Early last year, a friend told me that “version one is better than version none” and that has stayed with me.
So instead of that Novel that I’m waiting for the perfect moment to write, I have — in version one — shitty novels and short stories, unformatted scripts and half-baked articles. I procrastinate by writing songs and social media posts.
I’ve come to accept that my capital-N-novel is a fantasy. And it serves its purpose — to give me hope, to keep me going, to wrap myself in on nights when real life feels too much to bear.
Meanwhile, I send my polished version ones out into the world and somehow, some of them have found homes.