I don’t know why. I’m not sure what it would be about. Plus I know it’s a BIG project and I don’t really have much training. But this desire to write a book just keeps coming up in my life.
And since I’m not getting any younger, I figure I might as well be honest with myself and try to get into it while I have time.
Most of the writing I’ve done until now has been in my journals. And like most people, I’ve also done a little bit of online posting, here and there, but nothing much of note.
But then every once in a while, this bigger desire comes along, to do a bigger project, and it’s always a feeling that just has this general shape, like, “I want to write a book.” And typically, when this happens, the next thing is, I feel a rush and then I rush into my headspace full of all my mental furniture and I start arranging and rearranging, like guests will be arriving soon.
And then sometimes, in the midst of my pecadillo hubbub, I become vaguely aware that this inner book fantasy must have something to do with my outer life, right? Like, what’s going on with me that this is the shape of desire that keeps suggesting itself? A book shaped desire. But then, pretty quickly whatever that hint was of perspective turns out to be fleeting and flown.
And again, I’m not sure what I want my writing to do for me, or what I can do for my writing. I think I need to train if I’m going to make it to the top of this book mountain that I seem to be wanting to climb.
I know there are many ways to write: essays, novels, scripts, notes, journalism, blogging, all the sub-genres therein.
I’m not sure what my book would even be about. I’m not sure why my thing would even need to be a book. I don’t know why.
With everything going on in 2026, I feel strange. And haven’t there been enough books already? But I didn’t get my chance yet.
So, here I am, apparently, setting my sights on the top of book mountain. And I guess if I ever make it up there, to the top, I’m probably gonna end up like the bear in the song… to see what he could see.
