Some people feel that creating an amazing novel is their last hope of doing something truly great. They want to paint their name in big bold letters across the sky. I understand this feeling.
When I was young I could run fast. The speed in my legs was the manifestation of the thunder in my heart. The world needed to know this about me. I dreamt of running and the world cheering me on.
This was not to be. Others overtook me.
When I was a teenager I played the guitar. One night I dreamt I was standing on the precipice of a great mountain. I strummed my guitar and music shock the earth like a mighty earthquake. The people of the world looked up and saw me. They were in awe of my enormous power. They cheered for me. I looked down at my feet and saw that I was floating on air.
Then I woke up.
When I was in my twenties I started a small business. I started a small business that was really the seed of the world’s largest business: at least that’s what I thought. I dreamt of success. I dreamt of people wanting to know how I’d managed to achieve so much from such humble beginnings.
My business folded after six months.
When I was in my thirties I found myself sitting behind a desk chained to a dead end job. I would become a writer, I decided. I would write a novel that would shape the world. I would tell a story so real, so relevant, that the world could not help but notice me. I would be compared to some of the greatest people who ever lived.
I would accept these comparisons.
I started to type. My main character began to take shape. He was a small and shadowy creature, hardly human at all. He was afraid of the world but, even so, he had thunder in his heart. I wondered where this character was coming from. Who was the person I was writing about? I reached out a metaphorical hand to him. He looked up at me and, for the first time, I saw his face.
It was my own.
Some people feel that creating an amazing novel is their last hope of doing something truly great. Perhaps they should think twice?
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