Your First Novel

I cannot remeber a time in my life when writing was not something that I enjoyed. From my earliest memories of my education and reading ficticious stories, I remember thinking, "this is wonderful!" Right from the start, I had a thirst for reading that propelled me into advanced reading groups and going to the language arts sessions in the grade above my own. I was almost as fanatical as Matilda, though I never took a wagon to the library. And then came that fateful day that, while I do not remember specifically, was possibly the most significant of my life at that point. The day I was told to create a story of my own. We were instructed to learn math and science, logical things, concrete things, spelling and geography, subjects outside the realm of our own being. But to be given the assignment-alongside all of these important, factual lessons that were imposed to educate and better me as a human being-to dive into my own imagination and bring forth a lesson from my own existence, that was incredible. For something born of my own mind to be considered significant enough to be read and graded by a teacher, how could that not be empowering?
And so the stopper was pulled, and the outpour has yet to diminish.
The earliest I remember someone taking notice has to be from the second grade. My class was given an assignment involving long strips of paper being folded accordion-style and the resulting panels were to be the pages of a tiny book written about something or another, I'm not sure of the specific topic. My teacher was passing out the strips of paper, and mine wound up twice the size of everyone else's. I remember going up to her desk while the rest of the class was quietly folding and scribbling.
"Mrs. Holker? Am I in trouble?"
She looked up at me with a very confused, "Of course not, Katrina! Why would you think that?"
"Well, my paper is a whole lot longer than everyone else's, and I thought you gave me more work because I did something bad."
At this point, she broke into a smile, "I didn't mean to scare you, Katrina. You are just a very creative little girl, and I thought that maybe your imagination might need a little more room than theirs. You don't have to fill the entire thing if you don't want to."
Recess was right after that assignment. I spent the better part of it in the classroom, finishing my little "book."
True story.
Honestly, I have spent the majority of my life trying to figure out what I want to do with myself. Writing has always been something that I love to do, but for some reason, I have never been able to convince myself that I could actually make a career of it. The prospect has always been appealing, but never an honest option in my mind. Why would anyone want to read something I had written? It never mattered that I had such a love of doing the writing, just the uncertainty that came after. What if no one likes it? What if it doesn't sell? What if I never have the guts to send it to an agent? What if, what if, what if? It has never been for a lack of support that I have yet to pursue my writing professionally. My entire family practically expected it of me while growing up. I am surrounded by people who believe in me and my ability to do this. My parents have so much faith in me, my Aunt Carmon has a poem that I wrote printed out and hanging by her computer. My husband asks me at least once a week why I don't write something. We even have a published author in the family, my Aunt Laura. She writes fantasy stories that have been in many periodicals and anthologies, and a book on the shelf at the bookstore where I work. All of this and up until this very week, quite possibly this very moment, I have been too afraid to make my move. I am terrified that if I try and I fail, it will have meant that the faith and support of all of these people who love me will have been in vain.
But thinking about it and talking about it all so openly and subjectively-I know that they will not be disappointed, even if I try and fail. The only thing that will truly let them down is if I try and fail, and quit. Or, perhaps even worse, if I never do try to begin with.

I accept and acknowledge that there is a very low chance that I will write my first novel and it will get picked up and published and become a hit. I know that the first thing I write may not even be worth a damn. But without that first try, I will never get to my masterpiece(s). So this is for them, for my family and friends, for every english teacher that I have had the privilege of learning under, for all of these people that love and support me and believe in my potential. To all of them I dedicate my first novel. Even if no one ever sees it. :)