So today I properly begin working on a book. Sure I’ve written a few thousand words already but that was a blog post I started that grew rather than a real start of a book. But I’ve got this thing brewing and it needs to get out.

I’m nervous about it. Some would say scared. Who am I to think I’ve got something more than blog posts and the occasional musing to offer to people? What if nobody reads it? Worse yet, what if people read it but nobody really likes it and anyone who says they do is just being polite?

Some of my biggest heroes have written books or had books written about them. That’s how they became my heroes and I’m acutely aware that there’s no way I can match what they’ve done and given to the world. Who am I to step into their world and their main form of communication thinking I’ve got something to say.

Worst of all – I really have no clue what I’m doing. I’ll fumble my way through defining outcomes and the point of the book, putting together a broad plan for how it could be structured, do the research, map it out and write write write, and then I’ve determined to fumble my way through self publishing as long as I can get the validation of some decent endorsements but it’s really a big unknown and once I start, that’s it, I’ve got to do it. Write and hope for the best.

All my insecurities born from false perceptions aside. I’ve got to do it. I won’t feel like I’ve done what I’m supposed to do until this thing inside me is written. It doesn’t matter if anybody reads it or not, I have to do it otherwise it’ll eat away at me. Allowing my insecurities and fears to stop this will cripple me. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a sense of call at its most raw.

So into the abyss of authorship I now jump. May the silence I practice in the midst of it keep me sane. Lord, into your hands I commit my keyboard.