C.M. Rachels

They say writing a novel is like running a marathon. I disagree. In a marathon, no one questions whether your protagonist has “sufficient emotional depth” or tells you your pacing is off halfway through the course. Writing a novel is more like running a marathon with endless hills.

First, you get the brilliant idea hill. This happens when inspiration strikes, usually in the early morning hours. You jolt awake in a frenzy and scribble down a few lines that totally make sense to your sleep-deprived brain at that moment. Then you wake up the next morning and discover you’ve written: “Time is soup. He was the spoon.” Okay?

Next hill: Chapter One. You write your first thousand words, and it’s glorious. The words flow, the characters sparkle, and you briefly consider quitting your job because you’re clearly destined for bestseller lists. You reward yourself with snacks and a victory dance. Then you type “Chapter Two” and realize you have no idea what happens next.

You take a breather (or three) and keep going. Halfway through your first draft, a friend innocently asks, “Wait, why didn’t they just call the police?” And, just like that, your entire story plot collapses in on itself like a dying star. You try to fix it, but every solution creates three new problems. Eventually, you add a mysterious storm, a case of amnesia, or spontaneous teleportation and move on.

But the struggle is far from over, because by now your characters are revolting. They were supposed to follow your outline. Instead, they’ve developed opinions. They refuse to go where you tell them. The villain starts flirting with the protagonist. The side character you created as comic relief is now emotionally devastating. You’re not in charge anymore; you’re just the underpaid secretary taking notes.

Finally, after countless late nights, you finish your first draft. You take a well-deserved rest, then open your draft the next day to start revising and discover it’s terrible. You edit. You rewrite. You delete. Somewhere around Draft 7, you begin to question whether words have ever made sense.

You begin to wonder: Who am I? Why am I doing this? Maybe I should have taken up knitting. Knitting seems peaceful. Knitting needles don’t give you imposter syndrome. But then, just when you’re ready to give up, you read one of your old chapters and think, “That’s actually pretty good.” And just like that, you’re back at your desk, typing furiously, sure that this time, it’ll all come together.

Moral of the story: Writing a novel is chaos. Beautiful, exhausting, hilarious chaos. And if you can stand in the wreckage and still laugh, you’re halfway to the finish line.