When I was eleven years old I would spend hours and hours out in the yard working on my cartwheel. This went on for years, and that is probably why I can still turn a pretty impressive cartwheel.
It’s been harder to accept that some of the writing I’ve done is just like all those cartwheels—just practice. I tend to believe that every story I ever write should be bound in a book. I want to be a writer so badly and getting work out in the world makes that label feel more real.
I’m becoming more and more comfortable writing just to get better at writing. That is why I am starting a new draft of a novel I’ve been working on for at least four years, in a blank document with only an outline. That is why when one of my high school seniors said (in response to my sharing that I’d written a new outline over the weekend) “Is that the same novel you were working on our freshman year?” I proudly replied, “Yes, it is, actually!”