I started writing down all the memories from my adolescence that have forged who I am as a person in a notebook. The more the list grew, the more I realized that nearly all of them had been revisited, tampered with, and included into the monstrosity that is my incomplete novel. At that moment, I understood the impact of this book.
Whether it impacts readers across the globe or collects dust in a drawer doesn’t particularly matter anymore. I’d love for my labors to be qualified and reimbursed. Nothing brings me more joy than to have people reading and relating to my work, but if the end result is a handful of people and myself, that would be just as fulfilling.
This book, published or not, is the embodiment of me. It is the loves I’ve lost, the friends I’ve always had, the lessons I learned, the mischief I caused, the trouble I got into, and the kind of person I view myself as.
The higher this word count gets, the deeper I dive into myself looking for inspiration, and the more difficult it becomes for words to make it on the page. Writing and re-writing this unbound flood of letters and words has given me more insight into myself than I ever thought possible. Not only that, but it has unkowingly stored almost all of my memories in the confines of its pages.
They say the pen is mightier than the sword, and I tend to agree. Both draw blood; the ink from the pen is an author bleeding his soul into the work, but while the sword can bring about death, the pen leads to reflection that can torture the mind long before the sword would ever puncture the skin.
I’ve emptied my entire being into this work. No matter what happens from here, I am successful.