Do I Have Permission to Write This?

“people sitting on chairs” by Samuel Zeller on Unsplash

It’s time for me to start writing again.

The packing is done, the move is moved, and the unpacking is beginning apace. I’ve even sprained my ankle; my body giving me the perfect excuse to sit down, get back to the computer, and to start writing again.

So I’m sitting down . . . and I don’t know what to do.

I’ve been so dissatisfied with novel writing lately. My first novel did well — for a first novel — but didn’t lead to representation. And while I do love writing, I can’t help but wonder if novel writing is the thing for me. Will the second book sell? Will the third? How long can I spend my time writing books that never go anywhere?

That’s what’s scares me. I’ve already spent so much of my life and have nothing to show for it. Can I really spend the rest of it squirreled away in a dark corner, trying to write novels that go nowhere, with no guarantee that it will ever go anywhere?

That’s what has me thinking about the theatre again. I’ve been flirting with the theatre on and off during my life, again, trying to answer the question: do I really belong here? Do I, this obese, limping, hard-of-hearing, absolutely strange person belong in the theatre?

I love the theatre, and, in one of my favorite books, The Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood, author…