Writing has been important to me since I was a young girl. It allowed me to say things that I didn’t have the courage to say—to my friends or parents or siblings. Writing also allowed me an escape when life got too loud or messy. Pouring thoughts on the page meant my thoughts and feelings didn’t fester too much, infect me in a way that caused irreparable harm. Reading, too, served a similar function. Inside the pages of a book lived everything good and wholesome and quiet and content. Fiction, especially, gave me comfort when I needed it, and honestly, it still does.

Reading and writing took up so much space in my life that eventually, people said, “Write a book.” Like writing an entire book would be an easy thing to do. Well, come to find out, writing the book wasn’t all that hard. Sure, it took time and attention, and I had to learn the craft of putting together a novel. I took classes and practiced that craft, and I put in a lot of long hours, some of them arduous. And then, what do you know? I had a book on my hands. (Actually, I had several, but that’s not the point.) The thing is, there’s a difference between writing a book and seeing said book out in the world. Writers know that. Publishers know that. The common person doesn’t always know that.

So when my sister informs me of some event and then says, “Write a book,” I shudder. And when a colleague listens to a story and then says, “Write a book,” I roll my eyes. And when our friend permanently moves into our home and a mutual acquaintance says, “Write a book,” I almost lose my marbles.

Why is it up to me to write the book? My personal arsenal includes six published books. Isn’t that enough for one lifetime?

At this point, I’m thinking the answer to that question is yes. But we’ll see what the future holds. In the meantime, if you have an idea for a book, would you mind either keeping it to yourself or finding someone else to take on the writing task?

Image of bear and book by Christiane from Pixabay.com.