It must have been a couple of years ago when I decided that I wanted to write a novel by the time I turn 35. I’ve flirted with the idea more seriously since I wrote the reminder on the whiteboard that hangs above my desk. With only 11 months to go, I’m not sure that I’m going to make it.
Before I left Calgary for Toronto, some five years ago, my buddy told me that I need to write a novel. I took him seriously. Every psychologist that I’ve seen has told me that I need to write a book, usually in the first session. Them, I took less seriously. When I bought myself a typewriter in December, I thought I was making real headway.
Now, tomorrow is June, which means that I’ll be 35 in less than a year and I really can’t picture myself getting enough writing done in the 365 minus one-month days that are left.
I’ve got two months in the summer to write. I’ve got most evenings and weekends free, as well. If I could get my ass out of bed in the mornings, I could probably spend half an hour pounding out something while having my coffee before work. There are even a few minutes throughout the day when I could pull out my iPad and write a sentence or two.
I’m not even bothered with the idea of writing a novel, per se. I’d be happy if I were to finish a writing project that I’ve started.
Right now, my Collection of Recollections is at the top of the list. The compendium of short stories that I was working on when I first moved to Toronto is clipped together and stored haphazardly on my bookshelf. I haven’t touched my journal in a couple of months.
I’m not writing and that’s bugging me. I haven’t got that much more time to waste.