I can’t write

About four years ago, I decided I wanted to write a novel. I honestly can’t remember where the original idea came from and why I thought it was a good one. Since English isn’t my first language, I decided that my first step should be to perfect my grammar. I scoured the web sites and the bookstores. I read everything I could. I took notes.

It appears good grammar doesn’t make you a good writer.

I moved on to the writing books. I researched what people recommended. You name it, I read it. From the cheesy, encouraging to the step-by-step, practical. I spent my free minutes devouring the books, trying to motivate myself. I read so much that I had no time to write.

It appears reading books on writing doesn’t make you a good writer, either.

I then joined a few online writing groups. I signed up for some of the classes. I wrote my first paragraph. I posted it online and waited anxiously for other people’s feedback. I reread my paragraph hundreds of times. I refreshed the screen at least ten times a minute. I analyzed the reviews. If they said good words, I figured they must be unqualified to judge fiction. If the words were harsher, I was convinced those people were the people to trust.

Somehow, self-deprecation didn’t work, either.

I chose a few of my closest, most productive, most determined writing buddies and we started a small novel-writing team. I was scheduled to be in Japan for work and I had my nights and weekends to myself. If all this free time didn’t do it, nothing would. We each followed the same steps and promised to post about a chapter a week. It started with good intentions. Out of the six of us, only two people actually finished their novel in those six months.

Time wasn’t the problem.

Defeated, I signed up for a real-life course at NYU. I also decided to start fresh and worked on my second novel during the course. If my first one never got completed, that was okay. That one was not good anyhow. The course was three months long and I wrote what I had to for each assignment. Not a word more, not a word less. In reading my writing, my teacher didn’t cry out “Wow, where have you been all these years?” but she also wouldn’t tell me how much I sucked so I’d be put out of my misery.

The published teacher or the “real” writing class didn’t do the trick.

So I stopped writing. I put the novels aside. I didn’t have time. I just wasn’t good at writing and that was that. It was pointless to pursue something that just wasn’t meant to be. I put it out of my mind.

Or so I thought.

Two days after I quit, I woke up with thoughts of my third novel. An idea that had come to me whilst I was writing the second one. I dreamt about the new book three days in a row. I went back to my old writing and realized I’d written over 40,000 words on my first novel and at least half of that on my second one. Neither of them are enough for a novel and most of the writing does truly suck. But it all comes down to one fact: I want to do it. I like to write and it makes me happy. So I needed to find a way to keep writing fiction. And two days ago it hit me: Maybe I could stop thinking that I sucked and actually sit and write everyday. Maybe the little voice in my head was doing more damage than all the bad critics in the world. Maybe it didn’t matter how bad I was as long as I did write and had a good time.

Just maybe.