Running Forward

It's hard to believe, but a month ago I started writing my fourth book. Today, a mere 29 days later, I'm over halfway done with my fourth book.
Sometimes I wonder what's going on.

So, I'm in my senior seminar class which is basically as simple as come in, sit down and write for two hours. It's the easiest class ever. Anyway, so my professor and I keep exchanging emails about my progress and when I finished my goal 1 1/2 months into the semester, he was kinda like, "Um, okay?" Then I met with him and told him that I was gonna start on my fourth book while I waited for feedback on the novella I wrote.

Still waiting for feedback, I keep plugging away at my fourth book. And whenever I see my prof, he's constantly asking about how the writing's going. His responses to my updates are usually shakes of his head followed by comments like, "Your word production borders on phenomenal," and "You must type as fast as your fingers will allow you," and "Some day I'm just going to sit and watch you during class. You must be a word machine!"

These comments, sporadic in their nature and random in their wordage, give me encouragement. If a professor at my college, one who primarily excels in poetry, is surprised and enthusiastic about me as a writer, perhaps I'm not so far off. I think most writers agonize over whether they can actually do what they want to do. Writing seems like such a daunting task and finding someone to support you in a genuine nature seems near impossible.

And somehow I've been blessed enough to have not only friends and family members that encourage me in my writing, but now a professor of writing as well. How lucky am I? Far luckier than I realize on most days. Most days I forget how fortunate I am to live where I do, attend school where I do, have the friends and family that I have, and have a creativity that I suppose some people are envious of. I always think that my creativity is bland and nonsensical. I tend to look at myself in a rather 'ho-hum' kind of light.

However when I talk to other writers or classmates and tell them what I do in my free time, I get shocked reactions. About a month ago I was in one of the school's print centers, bunkered down for at least a half hour of printing, as I gathered multiple copies of my novella and the rewrite of my first book. I had been there nearly twenty-five minutes when another student I didn't know walked in. We exchanged the usual social pleasantries that people tend to offer around Houghton (you know, when we all act like we've already been friends even though we only just met one another).

Anyway, I was nearly done with my printing as he turned me to and asked with a tone of jocularity, "What're you printing over there? A book?"

When I told him yes his eyes nearly bugged out of his face.

It's reactions like that that make me wonder if perhaps this is cool. Perhaps I am allowed to be excited about what I'm doing because, well, let's face it, I'm writing books. I'm taking pictures in my head and making a story out of it. Granted not on my own. Heavens no. My gift is from God and that's the long and short of it. Goodness knows my limited creativity couldn't produce half the stuff I've come up with. I think it's only through God's grace that I've been given this opportunity to do something that I think is extraordinary.

Granted, to a world-view, writing a book is minuscule. I'm not curing cancer or world hunger or stopping heinous crimes. I'm sitting on my bum, smashing my fingers against a keyboard in an almost robotic like fashion (my friends tend to stop what they're doing and look at my fingers as I type. Apparently it's interesting to watch them fly along). I'm not doing anything grand or amazing. At least not on a major scale. However...

I like to think that what I'm doing is pretty cool.

But, that might just be me.

Currently Reading: On Becoming a Novelist by John Gardner
Currently Writing: Unseen
Currently Listening to: "Sticks and Stones" By Sigur Ros