I’m known for doing things that I have no business doing. This goes beyond ‘liking a challenge’ and actually borders on folly. Ergo, I’ve decided (at the age of 50) that it’s time to write my first novel.
I always knew I was going to write novels… someday.
Like many aspiring authors, I was obsessed with reading in my youth and I wrote often, though always privately, sharing with maybe one or two people. I didn’t have relationships with adults who taught me how to value my creativity and pursue it with discipline and rigor. If I’d been mentored early, I’m convinced I could have been very successful in this realm. But there’s no point in feeling sorry about not getting what I needed all those decades ago. Right now, I have everything I need to write my first novel – time, energy, health, and a supportive partner – and I’m finally doing it.
And it’s nothing like I thought it would be.
Even as an adult, I had fantasies about what being a novelist would look like. I’d picture myself hunched over a desk for hours, empty coffee cups and full ashtrays piled around me as I poured forth from my great well of creative power, effortlessly crafting a story that would move the hearts and minds of anyone who had the guts to pick up my book and read it. This imaginary scene was almost always in black-and-white, and usually involved a manual typewriter.
But, no.
As devoted as I have been to the written word, and to the novel as an art form, I’ve had to face the fact that my own writing up to this point has lacked the consistency and discipline to make it good. By this I mean, I’m a decent rhetorical writer who has kept blogs, worked in marketing, etc., but I’m talking specifically about long-form fiction here, which is a whole different world. My short stories over the years have been those of a hobbyist, with no intention whatsoever of having them published or even read by other people. There were no stakes. It was just something I did for my own amusement. Now, as I sit down each day to work on a novel that I definitely do want to publish, I’m faced with the reality that writing a novel is hard as fuck – yes – even when your situation is ideal.
Assuming you’ve managed to find the time and energy to do it, the reality of novel writing is a mental and emotional slog unlike any other creative enterprise I’ve engaged with in the past. For one thing, you have to keep a lot of things straight in your head as you build a world and the interior lives of one or more characters. I’m not the kind of writer that likes to use a detailed outline. I think it takes away from the most exciting aspect of composing. But I do have a bit of scaffolding I started out with so that I have some guideposts to keep me on track. I know how it’s going to end, and the main themes of the story, but I don’t feel the need to flesh them out in detail the way some writers do. That said, it’s a lot to manage.
The other thing I’ve discovered about writing a novel is that it’s next to impossible to maintain any kind of objectivity about it. Half the time I think I’m working on the shittiest book in history, and the other half of the time I’m convinced I’m a genius. This roller-coaster is dreadfully inconvenient when you’re trying to maintain a consistent output. It’s also exhausting. I’d been writing for several months before I finally broke down and took the advice of another writer friend to find some partners to work with. Bringing in another person to exchange my work with and offer constructive feedback has been a game-changer. It’s the thing that helps me maintain some level of objectivity when I start getting caught up in my feelings about this project.
And then, there’s the very basic concept of being able to actually write well. As it turns out, being a prolific reader isn’t the only qualification for being a great writer. Writing fiction is both an art and a craft, requiring inspiration as well as a dogged desire to improve technically. I took a course at the local community college last year, and I’ve read several books on writing, and all of it feels revolutionary. I’ve been learning new things at an exponential rate, and seeing the impact on my writing in real time. This is thrilling! But it also boils down to me learning how to do something as I’m doing it. Which, honestly, is how I learn best. I guess I just didn’t realize how much I had to learn. How much I still have to learn. How much I will continue to learn for as long as writing is my chosen occupation.
Anyway, the point is, I’m in a deep, dark forest right now. I put myself here, but that doesn’t make it any easier to find my way through. It’s incredibly uncomfortable at times, exhilarating at others. Sometimes, both at the same time. Which, I supposed is what a career change at midlife is supposed to feel like.
Love you friend.
You always inspire me.
💚💙💜❤💛