I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.I’m writing a book. I don’t know where it’s going to go story-wise, but I see it in much the same way. I wish I could see it and set it free. I suppose it will come as it is supposed to.
Michelangelo
I’ve wanted to write a book for years. There is a book in me. At least one. Biggest stumbling block: where to start.
So I started. It started with a short story, that happened to pass over the desk of someone (a friend) in the publishing world (I used to design and edit books in my life before the art market and wine bar), who then emailed me and asked me to flush it out a bit and send her what I came up with. That was months ago and I didn’t really expect to hear anything more of it. I know the publishing world and 100 million books and stories are submitted every year, okay so I’m exaggerating, but A LOT are submitted and NOTHING comes of 98 percent of them.
Surprisingly, I heard from her—this week—and she “encouraged” me to turn it into an outline and submit it (the outline), not as the story, but as a book.
I took the short story, added more of a beginning and voila, I figured out where to start. Age eleven. Lots of stuff happened in my life before that, which I suppose is why I want to write a book, and given I am forty-six, clearly lots of stuff has happened since.
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