I want to write a book. Tonight I was wandering around in Barnes & Noble and checking out all the books I wish I could buy. My wife and I still walked away with a sizable stack from the used section. That’s my favorite section.
I just keep seeing all these really interesting covers and really odd books that I really can’t believe get published. And then there’s all sorts of titles that I know any Joe Schmo could write. Especially a Joe Schmo like me. Then there’s all the books that just aren’t there. All the books that I could write. At least that’s what I like to think. Then I walk out the door and cross the parking lot and get in my car and I really can’t think of a lot of books I could write. I think I just like the idea of writing a book.
I know if I actually did write a book it wouldn’t be as glamorous as I imagine it to be. My book most likely wouldn’t be featured on the new rack at Barnes & Noble. If it was, I think I’d be sitting on a gold mine. More than likely my book would slip into obscurity and I’d have to call Barnes & Noble and ask if they even stock the book. They ask, “Who?” and I’d have to spell my last name, trying not to sound desperate. Of course Anne Lamott has written about doing this exact thing (only she was smart enough to act unsure of how to spell her last name so she sounded like a truly desperate writer trying to find her book in a bookstore). So maybe if Anne Lamott was that desperate and succeeded, then so can I.
Of course Anne Lamott doesn’t have any of the glamorous part either. In all of her best selling books she writes about how poor she is. Maybe it’s just a trick to scare us aspiring writers away. Yeah, that’s it. That’s what I’ll keep telling myself.