What May Fly Out of the Writing Cave

I remember the first time I sat down at a blank computer screen. I had finally organized my family and finances to carve out time for my first novel. What I hadn’t planned for was the screen’s intimidating glare. It stared back at me, daring me: Well, what will you do with me now? I had no choice but to plunge in and write wrong for a while. And then, one day, a viable story emerged.

I finally sold my first novel after twelve failed book proposals. If luck resides anywhere near the number thirteen, I’ll claim it. Even after eighteen books, the fear of the blank screen still waits for me at the end of each project. Starting again—the next idea, the next best plot I can hope to imagine—remains just as daunting as it was the first time.

Every writer must choose the next story. That decision either springs from a desire to please—or from somewhere deeper. Sure, we might sweat out these narratives for practical reasons, but something else drives us too. Stories echo around the cave of our minds until we surrender and give them their freedom.

I sometimes think I’ll write one more novel and be done. But the truth is, once I began that habit of writing one after another—even the unsold ones—my hobby grew manic. Here’s the other reality (we writers collect those): I have to see each story as something I may never sell, something I may only offer to a passing stranger—or simply as a way to quiet the relentless urge to release another tale.

And yet, one hope remains: that someday, more than one person will open one of these stories and feel something stir. That we’ll connect. That’s the deep, thrumming echo that scatters the story-bats out of the cave—the chance to connect with someone who loves stories too.