So you want to write a novel.

What’s stopping you?

You’ve read hundreds of books and there were many that made you think “I could write a better book than that.”

Again I ask, what’s stopping you?

You have lots of ideas that would make good stories, maybe even a movie. People tell you all the time that you have “a way with words”. You love to tell stories and you cringe when you listen to a poorly told tale. The bottom line is that you could write a book if you wanted to.

So why don’t you want to?

Maybe you’ve started doing it once, or even twice, but never got around to finishing because…(insert your excuse here).

That’s right, I said excuse.

Does that offend you?

Are you thinking “this guy doesn’t know me, doesn’t know my life.” Maybe you think that the things that prevented you from starting, or finishing that masterpiece are inconceivable to me.

You’re wrong.

How do I know?

Because I’ve been there – more than once. I’ve been there and each time I had a list of very impressive reasons for not doing it. The thing is, they weren’t reasons…they were excuses, I was just to thick-headed to admit that.

Don’t believe me? Well let me tell you a story…

One night in the late fall of 1984, at the age of 23, I was sitting in my apartment after my 3 year-old son had gone to bed. The routine of sitting alone every night (I was a single parent) was getting very old. On this particular night, I don’t know why but my mind was restless and refused to be satisfied with watching TV again. Before I knew it there was a voice in my head telling me to write something.

“Write what?” I asked.

“Just start writing,” the voice told me. “And I’ll take over.”

Perhaps out of sheer boredom I took out a pad and a pen, turned the TV off and sat at the kitchen table waiting for something to happen.

Believe it or not, within five minutes the pen was moving and words were beginning to fill the page.

I can still remember the first line…

“Hello, my name is Max, and have I got a story for you.”

That’s about all I remember and for reasons you will soon learn, the rest will remain a mystery forever.

Over the course of the next few months I would sit at the kitchen table every night after my son was sleeping soundly under his Transformers blanket and continue writing Max’s story.

Max was a troubled soul with a very cynical outlook who was tired of being taken advantage of and being a punching bag for anyone who felt like taking a shot at him. (Oddly parallel to the way I viewed my own life at the time.)

The pages continued filling and it wasn’t long before I began entertaining the thought that Max’s story might make a good book.

Then came Thanksgiving and all of the associated distractions. The pad and pen sat on the kitchen table waiting patiently for me to return.

Before I could blink it was almost Christmas. Another two or three weeks of non-production. Max’s story remained on the table like a jilted lover who refuses to give up hope.

Shortly after New Years I came down with Bronchitis. Who wants to write when you’re certain you’ll be dead before morning?

When springtime came the pile of pages still sat on the table in exactly the same place I had left them before Thanksgiving.

Spring in New England is like a rebirth. After months of seclusion and isolation, the long gray days that preceded the dark cold nights finally give way to sunshine and warmth making the thought of another minute spent indoors simply unbearable.

A girlfriend was helping me with some spring cleaning one Saturday afternoon and she asked me “What do you want to do with these papers?”

Not wanting anyone to know about Max, I quickly gathered them up, tucked them in a box, and hid them in a closet. That was the beginning of Max’s demise.

Summertime meant softball season and there was no time to write. Fall meant the start of pre-school for my son and once again, no time to write. Then came Halloween, with a four-year-old, are you kidding me? Then Thanksgiving melted into Christmas again and I found myself working a second job just to keep my head above water. Write? Yeah – not happening.

And so it went, day after day, month after month and year after year. Always there remained that belief that I would finish Max’s story “someday.”

In the fall of 1987, three years after Max was conceived, I landed a new job that required me to move. When I dug the box containing Max out of the closet I looked at it with a mixture of fondness and shame as I carried it to the dumpster.

I was moving…new job, new life, no time for the extra baggage.

You might say that Max died in-utero.

Two years later, out of the blue, inspiration struck me again.

I had been reading quite a bit about Karma and other such things and I had been spending countless hours pondering how the universe works.

I started writing again. I didn’t attempt to revive Max, he was resting in peace. The new story would go where Max hadn’t gone. It would not be the story of one person; it was going to be about many people. The key would be the way each of their lives was affected by each of the other’s.

It was a stroke of genius, there was no doubt in my mind that it would surely be a best seller, probably a smash movie as well.

I started writing. The story grew faster than a field of dandelions and each page gave me a new burst of enthusiasm. After 15 chapters I took a huge step – I told somebody about the story. It was my best friend’s wife who was gracious enough to read it and encouraged me to continue, which I did.

Then something happened that I never expected. I met a woman who I wanted to be with every minute of every day. In retrospect, it was nothing more than puppy love on steroids but at the time it was larger than life. Certainly more important than writing.

Six months later the relationship ended in a flash, much the same way it had begun, but now it was Christmas time and my son’s taste in toys was getting more expensive. I started working as much overtime as I could. Any nights that I wasn’t working late I was much too tired to write.

After the holidays I found myself with a bad case of “woe-is-me-itis.” Broke, alone, raising a child by myself, I was not exactly over-flowing with creative energy.

As time passed and I found many more reasons for not writing. I’m broke, I have to work, I have things to do, there’s a good movie on cable, I have to rearrange my sock drawer.

The reasons (notice I was still calling them “reasons”) were as unlimited and unique as snowflakes during a blizzard.

Another book bites the dust.

In April of 2006, more than 20 years after Max, I was living in Florida and my life was in uncharted territory, again.

One night I had a dream about two old friends. It was a strange dream that, like most dreams, had no beginning and no end. It was a snippet from a bizarre story that had been cut out of the middle. It was up to me to piece the ends on.

On my way to work the following morning I began creating the rest of the story. I reached deep into the corners of my imagination to extract a beginning and an end to the story I had dreamt. By the time I arrived at work the nucleus of the story was formed and I jotted down the main points. When I got home that evening I sat down in front of the computer and starting typing.

This time I told myself there would be no excuses. That’s right, I finally admitted to myself that the only thing that had prevented me from finishing my first two attempts…was me. I just didn’t make it a high enough priority. I would not allow that to happen again. Finishing this book, even if it never saw the light of day, would be a top priority, not a distraction to be displaced by any convenient event.

My schedule became simple and predictable. Work, Write, Sleep. If I had an opportunity to do something else I would choose to write instead. Every spare minute I had was devoted (and devotion is probably a perfect word, because that is what is required.) to writing. I became a recluse.

After more than a year, and countless urges to quit, I finally held in my hand a completed first draft.

Unfortunately this story doesn’t end here.

As I said, I had completed the first draft. Now I took my stack of unbound pages and began reading them, all the time asking myself “What the hell were you thinking?”

This pile of run-on sentences, spelling atrocities and grammatical felonies was barely worth the paper it was printed on.

Thus began Phase II of the process – the re-write.

Another four months of solitude spent in front of the computer. When I was finished (again) I read through it, again. Much better. In fact I felt it was now good enough to give to other people for feedback.

I gave a copy to my brother, another to my sister and a few to some friends. Then I sat back and waited for the praise to come flooding back.

It was a good theory.

The copies came back all right, they came back looking like they had been used as dressing for combat wounds. Red ink obliterated my prose. It was like a series of body-blows to a boxer in the twelfth round of a heavy weight fight.

I was now faced with two options.

I could walk away and use the old “Hey, at least I tried” defense or I could face the reality that writing a book is just not easy. In fact – it’s a lot of work.

I chose the latter.

Back to the computer for another re-write, which was followed by yet another re-write. When people say to me “Oh, you wrote a book?” I answer “Yes I did – I wrote it five times.”

By Christmas of 2007, almost two years after I began, it was finally finished. In July, 2009 my book (ironically titled “Living the Dream”) was published. You won’t find it on the New York Times Bestseller List and I’m haven’t been able to quit my day job…yet, but it’s out there.

So that, my friend, is how I know that your “reasons” are really excuses?

Writing a book is a fantastic accomplishment, one that will fill you with pride even before you sell a single copy, but don’t kid yourself, it is not like building a model car or painting the den. It is a long, arduous, demanding and at times demoralizing task. It requires dedication, commitment and tenacity on top of talent and ability.

In fact, all of the talent and ability in the world will not overcome a lackadaisical attitude.

There is only one way to write a book and that is to stop making excuses and just do it. If you can’t make that commitment there’s always painting the den.

Remember – “The person who really wants to do something finds a way; the other person finds an excuse.”

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Find out more about Tim at http://www.blindoggbooks.com/