One Hundred Thirty-three Thousand 700

   One hundred thirty-three thousand seven hundred-

   No, that’s not right. You're not supposed to write out numbers larger than - I mean greater than- what is it? One thousand?

   133,700-

   Wait - you can't start a sentence with a numeral – that’s the rule, right?

   How many "rules" did I forget when writing those 133,700 words?

   I guess it's not really forgetting if you didn't know them to begin with. I knew (know?) some rules. I know basic grammar, punctuation, and the like - though, I, still, can't get a handle on how to use a comma!

   Oh no- that was an exclamation point - you aren't supposed to use those!

   There I go again!

   Well, that's my allotment of exclamation points.

   Where was I going with this?

   Ah, yes, 133,700 words. The first-

   Wait - are these em dashes I’m using, or just plain old dashes? I’m trying to use an em dash. Is there not a button for the em dash?

   Seriously? I have to type numbers to get a simple em dash? Why didn’t I figure this out bef—?

   Sorry, I had to take the dogs out. I should have fed them before I started writing again. Now, I really don't remember where I was going with this. . . I hate when this happens. It happens all the time— I start to get into a good grove, I'm in the right mind-set (or is it mindset?) Either way, I have exactly what I want to say in my head then, BAM, the dog cries; and it's gone.

   I probably shouldn't have started that sentence before with, "it." It's a weak way to start a sentence —I read that somewhere. It makes sense, this is a terrible sentence.

   I’m certain most of the sentences formed from those 133,700 words are terrible. I know they need a good deal of work. Those words are, still, better than the 136,463 words that came before them, and the 62,588 words that came first.

   The story is there now. That’s what’s important—and it’s as it should be (almost.) I’m not adding or deleting characters anymore. I don’t need to overhaul the events, or sequence. I do need to make it clear, correct, concise. I need to be sure every word, every punctuation mark, is there for a reason— that’s something I learned from Ayn Rand, I’m pretty sure that’s where I read that.  

   I really should have done more reading about writing before actually writing, but I couldn’t. The story had been in my head for so long, and I had just worked up the courage to write it, that I was afraid if I didn't start getting it out of there I never would. Or someone else would tell it, and I couldn't let someone else tell it— I need to tell it.

   I say courage, but that's not right. I don't know what the right word for it is. . . I looked it up, I can't find a better one, so, courage it stays.

   I’m always looking up words. I second guess myself and think I don’t know a word’s meaning when I really do. Sometimes, I completely forget words I know. Like “carpetbag.” I once wasted half an hour— hold on, is it “half an hour,” or “half a hour?” It’s “an.” Even if it’s not, “an,” no one says, “half a hour.” I wasted a half hour, once, trying to find the word “carpetbag,” and didn’t even end up using the word.

   I was worried for so long that if I tried my hand at writing—what was I worried about? I don't even remember now.

   What I do remember is sitting in my room one night, trying to decide what I would do with my life—because, you know, it’s an important decision for a twelve-year-old. I had already opted against becoming a veterinarian after my parents took me to a vet school open house when I was about seven. I don’t remember much about the open house, except for one room that I can, still, picture. The large room was filled with stations where the students did demonstrations in front of crisp white animal skeletons. The last station had this plastic dog split in half long-ways with its legs chopped off. The girl at the station took the top half off the dog and held the bottom down to show me it’s plasticky innards. She, cheerfully, pointed out the liver and lungs, then with the same syrupy smile she said, “This was my teacher’s dog before it died—it’s been plasticized.” I didn’t want to be a vet after that. So, I made my list. I was good, not great, at so many (mostly creative) things that I often switched from one to the other, never focusing on one long enough to really excel at anything the way I wanted. I danced, sang, played the piano, and painted (I later worked in a small art gallery for a while.) What I did most was theatre. I loved theatre— the characters, becoming someone else, getting lost in a different world. I loved the same things about reading, but I need to create. So, that night, I made the list of all the things I was good at— including the non-creative things, like math and science. And I contemplated the list as well as any middle-schooler could, then scratched everything out and wrote, "write something important." That idea stuck with me, hanging in the back of my mind, for twenty-three years.

   I don't know if it will be an important story to anyone else, but those 133,700 words are the most precious thing in the world to me. Those 133,700 words is a new world I've built; characters, people that I love. Those 133,700 words may not be the "something important," I'll write, but because of them, I know it's possible.

   I wish I hadn't waited so long to write them— now, Timothy Olyphant and I will be too old to star in the movie! (There I go with another exclamation point.)

   And, now, I really do need to feed the dogs.