Risk-ophobics, writing-oholics

I recently finished Chuck Palahniuk's [one of my favorite satirical authors] Lullaby. It was wonderfully disturbing, as all Palahniuk's novels are. He has such an intriguing writing style. The sentences are short, the descriptions graphic.

He always brings something new, something perturbing to the table. It's a breath of fresh air in a reading world where everything has been done, redone, and done a few more times.

"The sound shivers through the walls, through the table, through the window frame, and into my finger. These distraction-oholics. These focus-ophobics. Old George Orwell got it backward. Big Brother isn't watching. He's singing and dancing. He's pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother’s busy holding your attention every moment you're awake. He's making sure you're always distracted. He's making sure you're fully absorbed. He's making sure your imagination withers. Until it's as useful as your appendix. He's making sure your attention is always filled. And this being fed, it's worse than being watched. With the world always filling you, no one has to worry about what's in your mind. With everyone's imagination atrophied, no one will ever be a threat to the world."

I'm taking Writing a Novel in the fall. The title of the class properly implies what I will be doing.I'm more than a tad nervous. When I read authors like Chuck Palahnuik, who practically poops originality, it makes me even more apprehensive. His writing is so unique and distinct. Not only is his style superb, his stories are completely different from anything else you will ever read. I mean Lullaby was about a journalist who discovered a poem that could kill people. He would just recite it in his head and BAM. They're dead. Gone. Sayonara.

I can't help but wonder if I ever be able to make my mark in the publishing world.

When Chuck first submitted his manuscript, he was instantly rejected. The publishing house thought he was too dark, too disturbing. Instead of hanging his head, he went back and made it even darker. He worked hard. He wasn't afraid of taking a risk. A big one. A few months later, another house picked him up, and, well, let's just say they haven't regretted it.

Truth?

I don't know what I'm doing. Next semester may kill me, really.

I can't pull amazing plots from my buns like CP. I enjoy taking others' ideas and transforming them into something great. Hence, why I want to be an editor. But this class requires writing, coming up with my own story. It makes me nervous.

I need to work toward become a writing-oholic, and shy away

from my risk-ophobic tendencies. That and I need inspiration for a novel.

Any ideas?