As an individual, struggling to finish that big novel, I must say I have tons of ideas in the back of my head.
I want to write the story of a stubborn man, whose everything is knowledge. There’s also this monumental epic about the politician, who thought she had won victory for her case, when she just became another misguided dictator. I’d like to see my short story in print, in which the narrator finds himself facing some of the emotional obstacles that I do all the time, which make life a tough run for me.
I’d love to produce movies and short films that would explore the depths of human mind, of guilt and forgiveness, of love and letting love happen. I want to direct and write and play.
I would also like to take action in diplomatic matters and bring about peace and prosperity and freedom and the understanding and common acceptance of good things.
Oh, there’s so much I desire to do. I desire these things with all my heart, to the core of my being. But then I’m reminded that I’m just a youth, sitting before a computer screen, having his novel rest, unfinished, unsatisfactory.
I’m totally honest when I say that I’d put my heart in all my ideas that I shared above. I believe I could write some beautiful stories that would contain some of my truth. But at the same time it’s aching me that I can’t seem to finish my first beautiful and great thing.
I may be afraid, you know. As a matter of fact, I do feel genuine fear.
If I could send my novel to Fitzgerald, what would he say? He’d comment it’s not enough—that’s my fear.
If Hemingway saw the text, would he be satisfied? I’d just get a flap on the back and he’d tell me that I’m not brave enough and I don’t know what it takes to be a man or to be alive—really alive. Yes, this idea also seems pretty frightening to me.
And what would Bram Stoker think of my work? I can almost hear him say: well, it’s a curious piece and noteworthy in some respect, however, I’m not convinced it is of true value. Sometimes this fantasy keeps me up at night.
Oh, and William Dafoe, wouldn’t he be out of his mind to read this blasphemy? He could only say this: To say that it reaches its goal to cultivate good in people would be too much and to compliment it for mere form would only be a lie. This makes me quite terrified, too.
Maybe I’m not good enough as a person or as a writer, I don’t know. But maybe that’s the true potential in me—maybe an inadequate personality is what’s required for the job to be done and done well. I don’t really know.
What I do know and there’s no mistake, I’m certain, is that I must write it. And that’s what I’ll do. I’ll put my inadequacies, my fears and everything beside and complete the work.
It is my prayer to be made free and capable to write it.