It’s strange to see how I’ve changed as a writer. I look back at my earlier work and think, what a funny silly guy.
I can’t write like that anymore. It’s not me. I’m glad I wrote what I did when I was that person. If I had waited, that guy would be completely gone.
The best book idea I’ve ever had has been sitting in my head for almost twenty years. I tried working on it when I first thought of it. I even conducted research and started the first draft. I was so excited. I wrote fifty pages, got stuck, and gave up. You all know how it goes.
It’s still my best idea, and now that I’m older I have a deeper understanding of the main character. If I had succeeded in writing the book the first time I tried, it wouldn’t have been nearly as good as it could be now.
But I still can’t write it. I have finished only two novels to the end of the first draft and never completed one. I don’t have the technical skills to do justice to the idea. I need to learn more by writing other books. I have to wait a bit longer.
But not too long. The person I am now understands this book. There is no guarantee the person I will be in the future will understand it or want to write it.
It’s a tricky thing. I have to prepare for my idea, know when its time has come, and then act on it.