I just finished my 7th book. Hard to believe after what I went through with my first one. As excited as I was to begin that first time, when I read the crap I wrote, I tore up the pages, feeling defeated.
My yearning to write kept me coming back, only to repeat the pattern yet again. This went on for months. I’d rip up pages in disgust and walk away in frustration.
Still the book kept calling. But clearly, I had neither skill nor talent to write it.
Then one day, while walking down a bustling San Francisco sidewalk during rush hour, I overheard two people chatting behind me.
He: I’m so frustrated trying to write this book. I just don’t have the time!
She: I know! Everyone wants to write a book. But no one’s got the time. And that’s really what it takes—putting your tush in the chair until you’re done.