Never write a book. It’s a terrible idea.

First off, it’ll take forever. You can start it as a kid and still not be done with it when you’re an adult. When you start, you’ll have no idea what you’re doing. You don’t know plot, you don’t know dialogue, you don’t know irony, you don’t know anything, I mean really know anything at all. All you’ve got is an idea that you came up with Monday night. But come Tuesday morning you’ll like it less. Even less by Wednesday. Come Thursday, you might get a second wind, but by Friday it’s just another dud. Don’t even get me started about the weekend.

You’ll put it off. It’s too stressful. A day turns into a week, a week a month, a month a year, and by then you’re not even the same person. Version 1 became Version 2, but is force to carry the baggage of Version 1. Forced to undertake the burden of the previous versions. Do you know how hard it is to write a book when your wooden planks keep getting replaced? Believe me, it’s hard to carry Theseus.

Don’t write a book. It will suck. You’ll look around, observe the world. No matter what, you’ll always be in second place. “Hay mas metaforas en Manchester que en Marvell.” You’ll think of galaxies and insects, and realize there’s more detail in dung than anything you’ll ever write. You’ll have to settle for second, for every second of every day.

This complete draft, this “novella” I’m going to hit send on was born of a concussion.

It was a cold November, the type of November that turns soccer balls into icy cannonballs. Free kick given for the other team. I stand in the wall. What if I get hit? My teammate hooks my arm. No escape. I jump to block. The ball careens at my face. I turn. Bonk. Hits me in the side of the head.

When you get a concussion, the doctors tell you not to do anything. No screen time. No TV, no phone. No reading, either. No nothing. I mean, no homework, either, which is a nice thing to hear for any high school sophomore, but nothing? So I did the one thing the doctor didn’t happen to mention. I started drawing.

I got my pencil out, grabbed a piece of printer paper, and started drawing. I don’t know or remember where I got the idea from. But I started drawing a scarecrow. And when I was finished drawing, I noticed something: He was looking back at me.

So don’t write a book. Or anything, really.

Never write a book. The characters will start to look like you. They will act like you, talk like you, think like you. The characters might even start to seem like people you know. There’s a character that seems like my dad.

The worst part is, you can’t even help it. No matter what, it all ends up like you. Your inner thoughts, your deepest desires, your greatest fears, they all appear on the page. The things you tried so hard to escape from, you end up chasing. The world you thought could be your safe haven is filled with the nightmares you tried so desperately to avoid.

Don’t write a book. You might get really drunk and start writing a blog about why you shouldn’t write.

Don’t write a book. It will weigh on you for years.

Don’t write a book. It will suck ass.

Don’t do it.

Or….