The Book.

I must have thought a million times over on how to start a book. There's most likely a book somewhere in the world entitled, The Easy Way to Accomplish a Difficult Task, Unless You’re Already So Talented. I wouldn't really know, considering finding said book would require me to possibly go into a library. The smell of libraries makes me feel like I've lived in one, and suddenly I feel a lurch in my stomach, like there is a necessity to scratch my way out of the piles of old paper and leather documentations of the lives and fantasies of ordinary people. I can't really stand it, even when I'm working so very diligently on an assignment or an informative speech for one of my many uninteresting classes.

But, however, I am digressing.

The point of this introduction is to explain how many times I've actually tried to start a book, or even to just think up a good way to start a decent plot. I would be brushing my teeth, thinking about clever sentences that seem to defy their own meaning. I spit. I lose the idea or reform it, its luster escaping with the toothpaste down the drain. "I've used too many damn adjectives in my life." I think as I walk quickly to yet another class I'm tardy for. I drop a book or two. I lose the idea with the papers that were supposedly firm and safe within one of my textbooks. "Nothing is safe." What kind of beginning is that? Of course, one I made up while walking alone at night, scaring myself with memories of horror movies and my own overactive imagination. I am reminded of exotic, creative deaths and traps, and my steps become long strides as I rush back to the safety of the dormitories. I lose the idea once again.

So I dare to ask, "Why even write a book? What is the point?" I feel I have three thousand stories within my brain. I don't understand the process, but every once in a while, I will actually create a formidable beginning sentence. An idea will sprout from my mind like a dandelion stem, and smiling, yellow petals will spring forth, reaching outwardly into the deepest crevices of my imagination, covering my eyes, creeping out through my mouth, nose, and ears until my only sense is a dull touch with which I clumsily grasp for a pencil. In a feral fervor, I scratch down this sentence and stare for what seems like a very long amount of time, not quite equaling an eternity, but then again, it doesn't really matter anyway.

What matters is that I've finally got it.