You begin a book like you make a friend: suddenly. You don’t shake their hand, and immediately puke up your backstory on them, making sure that their view of you is accurate. You just let them see you in whatever you happen to be wearing that day. Smudged eyeliner and your shirt tucked into your underwear on your left hip (without your knowledge, of course), your newfound friend is forced to make assumptions about you as a person without knowing that you heroically flushed your sister’s dead goldfish and replaced it with a new one all before Chugginton finished just this morning. And in that split second, as their eyes trace the crusty toothpaste left behind on one corner of your mouth, they are confronted with a decision: do I continue this relationship, or do I cut it off here by smiling a half-apologetic grin, and wave at some other friendship candidate? And just like that, you either have a reader, or another failed introduction. Not that I would know, of course.
You see, I’ve never got past the introduction of a book. Never squealed with glee as the phrases that I put to paper practically dripped gold as I read them over and over again. I’ve always wanted to, but as is typical of my behavior, I am afraid to fail at it. But now the tugging, daring section of my personality urges me to fail at it, to fall flat on my back and struggle, arms flailing, to right myself again, with the breath stuck somewhere between my chest and mouth. That urging, pushing, bossy part of me wants me to crash and burn if only because it means that I have something to fail at, something to call a failed beginning because it is better than nothing.
It is because of that that I have decided to finally write. Finally start the words that have been covering my brain in a sooty haze that engulfs me at traffic lights, and distracts me while skimming over my textbook. So, if I intend to start, you may ask why in the world I am only writing about starting. Good question. It could be that I am quite good at procrastinating, but I would like to think it’s because I want the practice. I want to type some small bit of literature that is insignificant before diving into the story that I have been holding so close to my heart, afraid to let it fly, to fail, to die. Or to live. (Hopefully it is the latter) So, today marks the day that I practice with my most dearest marble, my favorite baseball, in hopes that I don’t loose them. Wish me luck.