Have you ever given yourself to a project so completely, only to discover that all the work you put into it is unusable or downright terrible? Recently, I’d become reacquainted with this permeating failure. Since August 2024, I’ve been writing the manuscript of my debut novel. The story has changed drastically since I started it a year ago to the point where it’s nearly unrecognizable. I wrote a 50,000-word draft, and then the story changed so much that I basically rewrote the first draft, this one coming to 80,000 words as of now. It’s a coming-of-age story set in a magical, Viking-inspired world where the main character’s whole life is suddenly turned upside down by shocking news, igniting a dangerous quest across the globe.
For a few months, I was writing two thousand words a day, running on pure lust for my story. It grew up and matured, and changed so much in such a short time. Every day that I sat down at my desk to write, I felt like I was fulfilling a calling.
And then… that train lurched to a stop. Searching for inspiration to write was like looking for an oasis in a desert. I powered on a little more, but my impressive word count was long gone. When I couldn’t even think of another sentence to type, I decided that I needed to read through my manuscript before moving any further. The answers would surely be there among the gold that I had been typing for the past few months. Right?
Wrong. So very wrong. My draft was broken, incoherent, ugly. Entire chapters and plot points were missing, and some of the chapters that were in the manuscript didn’t even fit into the plot anymore. The setting was nonexistent. Worst of all, I felt like I wasn’t even sure that my main character’s motivation worked with the story anymore. Any writer knows that a good story is driven by characters and their internal conflict. Without that, a story falls flatter than the paper it’s written on. I was distraught.
For those few months of flow, my inner critic had been completely silent, doing who knows what in the back of my head. But reading my draft through for the first time, they were loud. How could I spend so much time writing something that sucked so much? How did I think I had any talent for this? What happened to the story in my head to turn it into this abomination? But the question that really made me chew on my lip was: Do I even want to try to make this story better, or give up on it completely?
It was a dark couple of weeks, plagued by self-doubt and unworthiness. I wondered: what gives me the right to be an author? What gives me the right to be a successful storyteller when I produce whatever the hell that just was? Why did I spend so much time writing when I could have been going to college or working more?
Over the years, I’ve become better at identifying a negative thought spiral when it’s happening. Hearing these thoughts in my head, I realized that I was confronting something a whole lot bigger than just writing a bad first draft. My old friend, my fear of failure, was lurking close by. I could feel the disturbance in the Force. I’d had run-ins with her in the past, but had learned how to protect myself using an advanced technique called half-assing. Actually, more like “half-hearting.” By never putting all of my heart into the pursuit of my dreams, I kept myself safe. If I was faced with a minor failure, I could excuse it as not giving it my all. It was a way to hold onto the hope of success when confronted with a situation where I might fail.
My manuscript was one of the first things in a long time that I had put both halves of my heart (and my soul) into. Vulnerability doesn’t always pay off- sometimes your heart and pride get bruised. I definitely felt black and blue after reading my draft.
Is it worse to know that you failed, or that you might have been able to succeed if you gave just a little more? I used to think it was the first, hence why I protected myself from the sting of failure. But after sitting with my draft for a few days in a complete slump and ranting to my comfort characters, the bite subsided. It would be easy enough to end this project and move on with my life. Sure, I couldn’t get the time back, but I also didn’t have to continue a story that wasn’t working.
That was when I had my epiphany. I thought back on the year, watching my story grow from a seed into a beautiful being. Even though I didn’t like most of what I read, I remembered how much fun it was to watch it evolve, to come up with new ideas, to nurture it. I remembered the maps I’d drawn, the characters I’d designed, the story I’d plotted over and over and over again. It was so. much. fun. So what if I spent a year on two drafts totaling 130,000 words + notebooks full of ideas only for my story to be awful? So f&$@! what?
I’d gotten stuck on the goal of publishing. I wanted a perfect draft, a perfect concept, a perfect story. And I wanted it now. That was a poisonous expectation I held for myself. I want to be a writer because I love WRITING. Not being published. Not being loved by my readers. That stuff is great too, but if I have to hate the whole process to get there, I’m not going to do it. I value myself too much.
As for my story, I’m not giving up on it yet. It’s first and foremost about me, and I still need to tell it, if only for myself. But I AM giving up on my unreasonable expectations for myself. I don’t have to be an author by twenty or a multi-millionaire by thirty. Just because this draft doesn’t work the way I want it to doesn’t mean the next one won’t. It doesn’t mean that this book won’t be a bestseller or be printed in 30 languages. It means as much as I let it mean. Jack shit.
I spent a year on this draft. I don’t love what I created. But I loved doing it. There is nothing that can’t be changed about my story. But you can’t get back the time you put into something. Let’s stop worrying about if it’s going to be “worth” our time. If it makes you happy in the moment, it’s worth it.
This past year has been amazing. I’ve had so much fun so far crafting my debut novel. I don’t regret spending my time doing what made me happy, no matter the fate of this book or any other I may write. The magic is in the present moment, so make sure you’re not giving your magic away by focusing too much on the past or the future.
Also, I hope the next time you are given an opportunity to throw yourself at your dreams, you’ll jump in headfirst. Yes, you might fail; that’s the way of things. Failure isn’t the end of our stories; it’s the turning page.
I love you all.
Blessed,
H.