Frankly, fiction has become one of the hardest things that one can write as a writer. You’re a storyteller who tells a tale that came from your head. You’re creating people that don’t exist and make them do things.

I’ve never edited a draft of a novel because frankly, writing them was extremely hard. I’d go into the first draft of a story in love with the story and characters; but, then I’d come out just completely drained in both mind and fingers.

But recently, I’ve found a story in my little story brain to write. Something in me decided to write about it, and a few weeks ago I started.

It’s been 2 months and I’ve written less than a thousand words. Hell, it’s less than 500 words.

Part of me is okay with this very little progress on this novel. I’m afraid of exerting myself and come to hate the story.

Starting this novel was a completely spontaneous thing. Sitting awake late at night looking at all my notes and character profiles, I was restless to start. The more I looked at it, the more I was itching and itching to write that first line.

So that night, I did. Then I wrote a little more and a little more, capping off at 480 words.

I’m itching to open up my manuscript. I want to write more. But you know what’s getting in my way; The 5-page research paper that has a lease in the depths of my to-do list, the informative speech I have to give, the readings for my pop culture class, the 4-hour Saturday shifts I have at my part-time job. Everything seems to be getting in the way.

But you know what? I’ve learned to not be angry at life’s many interruptions. Before, I wanted to be a writer that can write all day to my heart’s content. I want to ignore school and work and just sit in the story that I’ve been creating in my word processor.

But right now, I can’t. I look at some of the favorite books on my shelf and realize that all of these writers took years and years to write their books. John Green wrote his first book after his day-job in his apartment. Ray Bradbury wrote Fahrenheit 451 in the basement of a library on a rental typewriter.

It wasn’t long before I realized that my manuscript is different from the other manuscripts I wrote when I was younger. This story that I’m telling is going to take more time; it’s going to take blood, sweat and elbow grease. John Green once said that most of the story comes through the hundreds of re-writes that they do to their first draft.

I have to keep telling myself that my story will come with time. To say to me that this project is going to get finished. My manuscript and I are going to become conjoined at the hip when it’s all said and done.

I’m going to write a book.