I’ve always wanted to write a book.

It just sounds so cool: a book. Even better: “My book.” Still better: “Have you read my book?”

I can still remember, back in college, when a 6-page paper was a serious writing project. It took a lot of research, writing, and re-writing to get to that number. Then, my senior year, I wrote a 10-page paper one day almost by accident, and the teacher accepted it. “Wow,” I thought afterwards to myself. “I just wrote 10 pages. Me!”

In many ways, writing a book is a lot like running a marathon. Sure, 26 miles seems like a lot, but once you can do half of it, the numbers stop mattering so much. Which makes it all the more ironic that, when you start running, it seems to take all your strength just to get to the 5- or 10-mile mark.

Beginning writers must face the same mental blocks. If they strain and ache just to get to 5 pages, then writing 26 pages may seem out of the question. But if they write 5-page papers over again and again, it becomes easier. Suddenly, it seems possible to double that number, and a 10-page paper pops out. Yet another mental barrier down.

The next big mental barrier is the 100-page mark. I was lucky: I broke that number with my senior honors thesis. In some ways, I cheated: I merged papers from three separate courses, which took a semester apiece to write. All in all, those 100 pages represented a year and a half of work.

But none of that mattered to me: all that mattered was the page number on that last sheet of paper. One HUNDRED pages. Nearly a book’s worth.

I was ready, after graduation, to start my big novel. I had a literature degree behind my belt; I knew I could break the 100-page mark. I set off on a summer job armed with my laptop and big plans. I told everyone I was writing a book, and they responded, “Really? That’s so cool. Can I read it?”

Which brings me to another reason that people write books. We like the accolades. People seemed to be impressed by the news that you’ve written a book. They react the same way as if you told them you’d run a marathon.

I liked being known as someone who was writing a book, but I also knew that I had to live up to that statement or be condemned as a hypocrite. “Yes, I’m writing a book.” “Can I see it?” “Actually, I’ve just got the first few pages done. I’m planning to get to the rest of it sometime next month when I have more free time…”

Because, you see, you can start off writing a book with all the best intentions, but then your enthusiasm wanes just as quickly. You’ve got a life; you’ve got other things going on. The book seems like a distant dream, only remotely connected to the words on the computer screen in front of you. You do want to write a book, but the idea of writing the book appeals more than the drudgery of typing away on your lunch breaks.

And that’s what I discovered. That “book” I started that summer still sits in some forlorn archived folder on my computer. It’s just a couple of quick sketches, random anecdotes. A stillborn baby that never had the chance to cry.