The worst last words are, ” I wish I would’ve…”

These things we plan for When: when we have time, when we have money, when we retire… what are they?

During the minimalist ritual of Throwing Out The Stuff, I discovered an old notebook, buried deep in a box. It is truly a beautiful object. My dad brought it back from a business trip to India years ago. The textured sepia cover features an inset picture painted on hand-crafted paper. A lady dances by a stream, her crimson sari waving in the breeze. You have to look closely to see all the little details; the cover almost begging to be opened.

Inside, I found my younger self, scrawled in purple ink. I had even given my little book a title: “Random Words.”

I was so deep at fifteen.

Settling myself on the cold cement floor of the basement storage room, I leafed through more pages. Pencil sketches of wide-brimmed trees, lakes with rivers leading into the horizon, a portrait of a friend. Each drawing accompanied a poem I had written. The purple scrawl told of maiden heartbreak, the tribulations of adolescence. Death, who came for a friend much too soon.

The illustrations I had drawn were rough, but the words… my words, even teeming as they were with teenage angst… They held truth.

“It was gnawing at me from Someday, aching to be created.”

Swallowing hard, I placed the book in the Save pile and continued sorting. As the “Library Donation” tower grew taller, I thought of another journal, most likely buried in my parents’ attic. Between those coral and blue covers lay the first chapter of a book. The novel I had started writing on the dock as a moody thirteen-year-old. Something about a lake. A water goddess. A tween’s imaginings of love. The memory stuck in my craw.

Books bound for the library rummage sale were duly reboxed and heaved into my hatchback. Before I left, I gently placed my “random words” on my bedroom bookshelf.

When was a good time to write a book? Writing a novel, having my name at the bottom of one of the precious, life-giving tomes had always been a fantasy. One of those things I would definitely do before I died. Probably. Maybe.

About a year before the Random Words were unpacked in my Michigan basement, the good husband and I were on a rare date night in Georgia. Keegan’s Irish Pub was the best just-ok spot in the suburbs. Decent, deliciously fried bar food served on beds of greens so we could pretend we were being healthy and marginally fancy. Lots of potatoes because #Irish. Towering booths with plush Naugahyde. Cheap drinks. Always a lone musician with a kit to liven up a Friday night. Located just two miles from our house and the babysitter, Keegan’s was the perfectly fine date joint in our suburban wilderness.

Midway through a pile of hand-cut crisps with bacon and cheese, the good husband reached across the wide, shiny table and squeezed my hand.

“You should write a book.”

“A book?” I said, somehow shocked that the man who knew all my secrets also knew about this secret dream. “Where did this come from?”

“Well, you’re writing the blog for Atlanta Master Chorale and people seem to think you’re funny on Facebook. Write a book! It could be our retirement plan.”

“Ok,” I said, blushing slightly. “I don’t know how to write a book, but I do know that authors do not get paid enough to finance our retirement. I love the confidence though. What would I even write about?”

“I don’t know – your life. I don’t know,” he repeated, leaning back to subtly shift his gaze toward the sports games flashing brightly across the screens. “I can’t write the book for you.”

“My life.” I smiled down at the congealing chips. “But isn’t that like, narcissistic? And I don’t want to expose the kids. I mean, the best books tell the truth and sometimes the truth about the kids is that they drive me nuts. I don’t want to write it and then they read it someday and then they’re traumatized and have to go into therapy.”

“Pay for the therapy with the book earnings,” the good husband said absently before slamming his fist on the table with a grin. “Yes!” He shouted.

“I feel like driving the kids into therapy is not a great idea.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You screamed ‘yes.”

“Oh – they scored.”

I looked at him for a long moment. “I suppose I could write from the dog’s perspective. I mean, she’s so crazy – I would have lots of material. But her name is too generic – I’d have to rename her something catchy for the book – something ridiculous that kids would choose if we let them. Pizza! The Adventures of Pizza the Dog!”

The good husband whipped his head away from the bright flashing excitement of the Game and gazed at me full on, striking me mute with the intensity of his blue eyes. He reached again across the table, taking both my hands in his own.

“Please don’t write ‘Pizza the Dog.'”

Eight months later, I found myself at the library with a box in my arms and purple pens on my mind. I set the donations in the proper pile and wandered up to Non-Fiction. Shelves upon shelves of how-tos blossomed before me. I grabbed as many as I could carry and scuttled to the check-out. (I am never a minimalist at the library…) I half expected the librarian to give me a once-over from behind the polished oak counter. “Who do you think you are?” I imagined her saying. “What business do you have trying to write a book? What qualifies you, in any possible way, to do this?”

Of course she said nothing, simply scanning my books in polite silence. For the first time since arriving in Michigan, I was grateful to be absolved of Southern small talk.

At home, I squirreled the how-tos away and began furitively outlining my book. (Because apparently books need plots and plots have structure and structures are outlined.) A week in, I confessed to the good husband and two close friends that I was kinda maybe possibly sorta writing a novel. All three were neither surprised or discouraging. The general consensus was “Of course you are. Awesome. Keep going.” And so I did.

Maybe writing a book isn’t your jam. That’s fine! There’s probably some other dream, another project gnawing at you from Someday, aching to be created.

If this ephemeral creation is gnawing at you like the Book was gnawing at me, let’s explore how to get it done. I’ve found there are five, maybe six steps. Here are the first two:

Decide to Just Do It.

Seriously. Tell yourself you’re going to just do this.

Here’s a MadLib for you:

I’m going to __________________and ______________ will be done by __________________.

Research

Turns out, you can’t write 400 pages of only metaphor and angst and call it a novel. Apparently, things like plot, world-building, structure, theme, and character development are involved. After I struggled through writing five pages of self-indulgent nonsense, I realized I needed to do a lot of research to create a novel. Books, podcasts, the infinite knowledge of Google are all great. Swallowing the pride and doing some research is a great second step.

In the research phase, I heard so many artists say, “I wanted to sing that, play that, have that role, read that, see that. But it didn’t exist. So I made it.” There is nothing more exciting than creating that thing you always wanted to exist. It’s not going to be perfect, especially at first. But there is so much courage in taking that first step. Go ahead. Do it.

Oh, you’re creating that? Awesome. Keep going.