49,640 is the number of words I currently have in my story. There. I'm saying it. I'm writing a book.
It's something I've informed a few people of since January, since I determined that 2014 will be the Year of the Book. I still get embarassed when I say it, still worry that I will fail--that I will never finish or, worse, that I will, and it will be absolutely atrocious.
But it is getting easier, if not entirely easy, to push aside these doubts and just wallow in the joy of writing. To sit in a chair, pry open the laptop, click on the file, and have sentences magically form underneath my fingers. I struggle to describe how it feels--a sentence wasn't there, and then it was. And then a paragraph. And then 49,640 words.
Sometimes, when my mind isn't preoccupied with stories, different ones every day, I wonder what fills other people's minds? How do they entertain themselves in line at the doctor's? How do they lull themselves to sleep at night?
Maybe I'll never be the published author that I've dreamed of becoming ever since I was a little girl, but I think it's about time I give it a fair shot. I'm old enough to understand that even failure in this regard will not stop me from being a writer.
Only (approximately) 20,360 to go.