Little over a week ago, I was standing in the living room, staring at the floor. There, spread out on index cards was a complete story. By complete, I mean that there were three acts with plot points, twists, and a resolution that left me satisfied that it was now time to start writing the manuscript in earnest.
I posted a picture of myself with my babies to Instagram, Twitter and Facebook then kicked the Keurig into second gear.
It was time to write.
That first sentence can be a real bitch. It’s the one that gets readers to move onto the next sentence, and it can be absolutely intimidating to write it. I spent several hours going over ramblings and scribbles from the past five years that I’d been incubating ‘The Pepper House’, and still don’t have a first sentence.
Because I need to write an entire book, and I can come back to it when the time comes. This has been a huge obstacle for me throughout my years and attempts to write. It’s getting off the blocks once the gun has fired. I have this unreasonable need to obsess on perfection when it comes to telling a story, and knowing the importance of those first few words can be paralyzing.
I did the opposite. I wrote the worst sentence I could think of that conveyed what I was wanting it to say. “Jacob took a picture of the Pepper House.”
Looking at it for a time, I was at the point of picking my laptop up and flinging it across the room. Who reads the next sentence? No one. Who buys that book? No one.
And I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. It was so absurd to me that it was nothing to write the second sentence and within an hour, I had chapter one. A really rough chapter in need of a lot of red ink, but that’s a different issue for me than that first sentence.
Editing is a completely different demon that I’ll conquer later. For now…just keep writing.
A handful of chapters and act one is done.
It’s Sunday morning, ten days in…
I got this…