I recently finished the rough draft of a novel I've worked on for years. More years than I care to admit, actually. Mr. Gaiman said it perfect (though I can't find where or when he did say it, actually) - it seems like it should be easy, but it's not. At least for me.
I'd had a story brewing in my head for a long time and thought about often when I read other stories. I am a total bookworm and love to write, so I thought I would try my hand at writing a novel. I started out with NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) as a motivating program, and it totally works - I wrote 50,000 words in one month. Woot! Unfortunately, I hated the manuscript. It didn't seem salvageable, so I shelved it. Then I tried a second NaNoWriMo a few years later with the same story idea, but after disliking that result as well, I decided I was probably an outliner not a discovery writer. Which it turns out, is mostly accurate. I outline, but do often discovery write scenes. A happy medium.
Finishing that outline helped me finally figure out the direction my story needed to go so it was something at least *I* would want to read. I was excited about it. I didn't outline every scene, but had it plotted from beginning to end. Another celebration! So I started writing the prose. I thought for sure it would be easier since I knew what was going to happen now, but...it's wasn't. Which was annoying. There were so many days it felt like a slog. There were some scenes that were thrilling to write, but they were few and far between.
I still loved my story, but eventually, I let life get in the way. I was already working full time in IT, then over the course of the next five years I added two kids and a mother-in-law to take care of and all that goes with them, and two large house projects. Adding anything sloggish was not really an option, and I was often blocked. I would get discouraged reading about how other writers would wake up at 4am to get their writing in at the beginning of the day, or stay up late, or sneak it in during the day if there were kids around, and that to be a writer you just had to do it every day, even just a little. I tried it all - went eyes off and wrote other stories, found good friends in writing groups, and ultimately only made little spurts of progress. I was still working full time and the the two young kids were practically nocturnal...and I was bone tired. And while it's true you can always find time for what's important to you, I just couldn't seem to get myself past the first third of the outline. I didn't really know what that meant. Did I not really want it?
So I started writing poetry. I had been missing words and creation, and a poem is wee bit more of a digestible undertaking. It still took time, but it never felt like a slog. In fact, it was freeing and glorious. I fell in love with the act of uncovering just the right words I needed to express myself, shaping them into a rich, powerful form, all the more so because of its condensed nature. I loved it so much that I mentioned to my mother I was thinking of giving up on my novel.
To which she gasped with wide eyes, "Don't you dare!"
"Haha, I know, I know, I'm sure I won't," I said with a twitchy smile. I was not at all sure.
It was a few months after that a good friend and fellow writer put me in touch with a writing program she used to level up her own manuscript - Angie Fenimore's Calliope Writing Coach program. They help you from cradle to grave through drafting, revising, and preparing for and navigating the publishing world. I loved Angie and what I saw in the seminar and signed up - this was it. It was now or never. I was determined to finish this thing once. and. for. all.
After a few weeks of instruction, they give six weeks to draft, which I thought if I put my shoulder to the wheel and just really dedicated myself I could do since I already had quite a bit done. I figured out plot holes, was writing often, and was making consistent but in the end, not substantial enough progress. Then the deadline suddenly loomed. And apparently, that's what I need. A deadline. I'd already been writing bigger chunks, but suddenly I had only eleven days left. I had recently made it just past halfway in my outline, but had a long way to go. I was determined not to miss out on the upcoming sessions, and they recommended moving mountains to finish. So I did. I took vacation days at work, got help with the kids (or gave them their iPads more often than I prefer), my husband did the kids' bedtime every night, I avoided people in general, and I wrote. A lot.
I ended up writing about 50,000 words in those eleven days. (!)
I wrote as much in those eleven days than I had in the past three years. I gave myself permission to write poorly and insert things to research later, as long as I got it out (taking faith in experienced writers saying all first drafts are shit). I was rewarded with finally writing some of the scenes I've been excited the most about and even crying a bit when writing the death scene of a main character. And then I wrote "The End". Books rarely say that at the end anymore, but it felt symbolic (see: surreal and euphoric) to do it. And since it's a story I believe in, I'm actually excited (and a little nervous) to dig into the revision process and see what I can really do.
For once, I finally know I can finish something big (it's about 107,000 words right now), even with all of life's craziness. And maybe it's okay if I don't do it every day, maybe binge writing will always be my answer. Or I'll find another little happy medium between the two. I don't know, but I do know after all this that there's no "right" way to be a writer. As long as you write. Put words one after another until it's done.
I'm just so happy to finally be able to emphasize those last two important words.
It's done.
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