All the old how to write a book books.

I got out all of my how to write a book books, and I intend to refresh my memory one day soon. Hopefully before I'm supposed to write a book, which doesn't give me much time.

I haven't quite gotten the nerves yet. I wonder if perhaps they won't come at all this time. Maybe a little part of me has died from not writing in so long. Maybe a big part of me has been sucked out by the vacuous uninquisitiveness of teenagers. Maybe writing is no longer a part of me at all. (In fact, it's been so long since I've done anything purely indulgent that I'm not really sure if there is a part of me left to indulge. Maybe I am just entirely work-self and mother-self and sleep-self.) Maybe this will be good for me.

Or maybe I'll stare at the computer screen for a half-hour a day and then walk away feeling even worse about myself. Maybe I will finally come to the realization that there is no great American novel in me. There is no best-seller waiting to be sold. There is only this. I have nothing else.

Don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with this. I've produced a perfect child, and I've purchased a lovely home, and I certainly do accomplish things.

But I always wanted to write a best-seller. There. I've said it. I've confessed it. Not for the money, though it wouldn't hurt. Not for the fame; I'd use a pen name. Just because I always, from Kindergarten on, wanted to be a novelist. Is that so wrong?

And, normally, that fact would leave me all tingly and excited and fearful at the beginning of National Novel Writing Month. But, now...nothing. Is that a good thing? Or a bad thing?