I had my ideas on paper. In point form, they didn't really evoke a sense of awe. Rather, it was thirty-odd pages of scribbles that, frankly, looked like a really long doctor's prescription. I could read it, but just barely.
It wasn't entirely my fault. I was writing at a break-neck pace, trying to get all the ideas out so I wouldn't forget anything. I wrote until my fingers cramped and I wrote while my fingers were cramping. I wrote beyond that until my hand was numb. In fact I wrote so much, the body of the pen made an imprint in my finger and thumb that lasted days after I put it down.
My brother once took me jogging. I'm not much of a jogger. I'm more of a sitter. An eat-chips-and-swig-Pepsi-by-the-gallon-then-take-a-nap-before-bed sitter. About five minutes into the jog, I was panting and sweating enough cola out my pores to cause diabetes. I begged him to stop. I don't think he heard what I said; the words sort of stumbled out between death-rattle gasps. But he got the gist, I think, by the begging look I gave him and the fact that I was gripping my guts as though I was afraid they were going to fall out.
Of course, he wasn't even winded. The man's an ox: martial arts, weight-lifting, calisthenics: his left pinky finger can bench press more than I can.
He looked at me and smiled (he smiled!) and said, "You gotta push through the pain."
I don't think he knew this, but after he turned back around to keep up his torturous pace, I flipped him the bird. Okay, I didn't. I tried, but I couldn't seem to stop my arm from flopping around like spaghetti.
But as I wrote, I understood. I wrote, and I wrote, and it didn't matter if my hand was turning into a twisted, mal-formed claw. It didn't matter if my arm went numb. I just had to keep writing. Push through the pain: I got it.
And it only got worse. You see, at this point, it was time to organize the point-form notes into an actual story. I mentioned I didn't yet have my laptop. It was all done by hand. I went through a box of pens before the story was down. I went through two packages of lined paper. I went through a dozen layers of skin.
I would not stop until it was out of me. Strangely, I would not stop because I could not stop. I was gripped by some manner of ghost, possessed by some sort of demon, that would not let me lay my pen down, that laughed maniacally whenever my knuckles seized. The bastard.
Three months passed like this. Three mind-numbing, knuckle-busting months. I don't remember much else from that time. I've never been so obsessed about anything ever. When I laid my pen down, forcing my fingers apart to do so, I stared at the page, at the words, "The End" with a combination elation and sadness. Elated because I had done it, and sad because, well, the story was out. It's like saying good-bye to your best friend. I know that sounds weird. I mean, the story was sitting right there, right in front of me. But it wasn't the same. And I felt sad.
But it was done. I now had my book, The Path of the Sword, out of me. On paper.
And that's not what any of you read. That was only draft 1. The story had to do a lot of growing before it became the book you read (or maybe you didn't, I won't judge). That part of the process took much, much longer.
Especially since it was around that time that I got my laptop. *Sigh*
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