I want to write a novel. I’ve had the desire for a long time, but I’m starting to realize that to actually discipline myself to take the time and effort to write more than a synopsis is the hardest part. I have plenty of ideas. They roll around in my head constantly, becoming a part of every moment of my day. However, when I sit down to write, I find myself trying to rush past the details a good book requires in order to get to the heart of my tale. I am easily distracted, too. If only I could make myself MAKE time to write, like everyone says a good writer should, then perhaps I would overflow with thoughts and ideas to help me finish. Some would say that a real writer is constantly jotting down notes on napkins, scraps of paper and any place they can. If I don’t do that, does it mean I’m not a “real” writer, that maybe it isn’t really my passion? I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll never finish my novel. Or maybe I will finish, but it will be so bad that I’ll never find a publisher. Does that mean I should stop writing? Maybe, but I won’t. I’ll keep at it, most likely starting and stopping a dozen times a year until I either finish or start a new one. So that’s it. It is a journey, but I’m beginning to see that being published is not the end of the journey. I’m not even sure that actually completing the work is the end of the journey. I think that a writer never comes to the end, sometimes not even in death. A writer is always on a journey to print, not to publish, but to print the words on paper so that someday, someone might find them and be changed.