i’m sitting here in the guest bedroom at my house, with its newly painted green walls and i’m sitting on the new full bed right beside the window. the window is open and it’s breezy and for it being almost august, it’s only in the mid sixties today – and it’s weird; because here i am starting to write my first novel because i somewhat have the courage to do so. but this room was once full of baseball and football wallpaper and it was once my brother’s room so naturally he never “allowed” me to be in here – especially while he played his play station and read his comic books but here i am writing a novel. but it’s weird because when i was a little girl i laid in my twin size bed in my very tiny but very cozy bedroom and my grandmother would caress her fingers through my short brown hair and tell me stories – but here i am writing a story of my own and she isn’t here and now my hair is long and curly. so it’s weird. a lot is still the same though, like the scent of fresh air that roams through my house when all the windows are open and it’s sunday which means my dad is probably grilling and my mom is outside talking with the neighbors and here i am sitting on a full size bed, drinking capri sun, and writing a novel.
so it’s weird.
and i am still finding myself a little insecure with each word that i type like holy moly what if no one wants to write this novel? like, what if someone opens the first page and goes, “welp i have no desire to keep going, who even decided to publish this measly thing?” surely there will be a gem of a person that opens it and goes, “this is amazing, i must keep going.” but what if it doesn’t even get printed? and stupid me for even thinking this too far ahead.
i think way too much, which should be weird but it’s not because that’s all i’ve ever done.