Darling,
November is National Novel Writing Month. I saw you flirting with it from beneath your lashes. You’re considering it, aren’t you. Let’s discuss!
Once upon a time, a group of friends had an idea: share accountability, pen 50,000 words in 30 days. It blossomed into a cottage industry. . . leading to controversy, accusations, and a questionable statement on AI. The tower crumbled.
Luckily, one can simply do NaNoWriMo. No brand needed! I did. It changed my life.
The idea popped up over tea and petit fours with a friend. We each had a notion for a book. We agreed to send each other word counts.
To prepare, I made notes and picked up a few books on craft. Momentum was king, so rather than to do the exercises, my technique was to skim them in the bath with a glass of wine.
Soon, we were texting, cheerleading. . . and discovering NaNoWriMo is exceedingly doable. It requires around one substantial scene per day. I missed some and caught up easily enough. Accountability within a tight time frame works.
It was fun. A bonding experience. We both “won” (hit 50k). More petit fours were had.
The Good: NaNoWriMo demystified the novel-writing proess. As deadlines and gamifiying are wont to do, it pushed procrastination, fear and vacillation to the deep background. Sssh, I’m merely hitting my word count. It needn’t be good yet! I won’t even be looking at it till December.
Brilliantly effective! I especially recommend not editing. Forge ahead, you lovely thing!. The goal is to generate raw material. Hush that voice saying, “but what if I got the timeline wrong? Did I spell Zoey with a ‘‘y’?” You’ll fix it later. Onward!
The Not As Good: I shan’t lie. I did not immediately end up with a novel.
At month’s end, I had 50,000 words of an extremely dark story. It needed work and more words. I fell off a cliff into glumness. Not about finishing—about dwelling in so bleak a landscape. One never knows how a story will feel until one gets to brass.
This is when, were I a cartoon, a light bulb would’ve lit over my gorgeous auburn head.
I realized I’d romanticized the idea of a novel. I thought it meant one had to be clever, scathing, narrating from a cool remove, intellectual in the way of The Literary Elite.
I could, I supposed, follow the lead of those authors. It simply depressed me to do so. Much inside me felt unsaid, untouched. Optimism had left the chat, and while this is perhaps to the advantage of a literary novel, it wasn’t deepening my relationship with my creative fire.
What if I write a novel. . . for fun? Not to blaze a trail, prove something, increase my profile, optimize monetization.
What if my goal were to maximize delight?
I sat under a redwood and pondered what would thrill me if no one would judge, scold me for misusing my education, or remind me what sort of book got them long-listed for a National Book Award.
I opened a notebook and began to outline a romance novel.
If only I learned in one swoop! Alas, my first attempt was, again, too self-serious.
I repeated the exercise with more parameters: pick something breezy and brazen. Banish the word “novel” entirely! Plot simply, so you may immerse yourself in wit, steam, angst, tenderness—the things about romance that give you the most pleasure.
Writing The Duke’s Bride Vanishes was, unsurprisingly, a joy. I focused on two characters over one night. Every part—the fairy tale references, the research, capturing the duke’s, ahem, commanding tone—was fun, full stop.
Tellingly, I didn’t skip a day. I wanted to work all the time. At its best, writing fiction feels like falling in love.
Upon polishing the novella, I immediately wanted to write another. Alignment, darling: when one is in it, one knows. I was curious about the bride’s giggly friend. People think she’s a silly, vapid girl. What if she’s secretly brilliant?
Ash and the Butterfly was born. As I worked (or rather, played), the story expanded. Anger and grief entwined with the whimsy. The plot twisted organically. I followed where it led, including to crash courses in code-breaking and entomology.
I emailed it to my editor. “Your novella is a novel,” she wrote back. “Congratulations.”
And that is how I failed to become a novelist, then became one accidentally. (Ash immediately made the finals of a contest, to circle back to my cheeky boast in the title.)
Ask what you’d write if no one would judge. What brings you joy? You’ll write the smart idea in the hot genre next. Once, write something solely for your own creative satisfaction.
Pick a pen name, if that’s what it takes to get out of your own way, dear. Don’t waste an instant envisioning co-workers reading the bit where your male main character takes your other male main character against a wall. Protect your imagination.
Do a bit of thought organizing.
Think novella. Build a jaunty tent, not the Taj Mahal. Completing it will pave the way for greater ambitions, one way or another.
Get how-to books, if you wish, but hold advice lightly. We’re not joining a cult, merely gleaning helpful hints.
Consider Scrivener, or a system of saving work in separate files, so you aren’t staring down a single long document.
Do romanticize the process: drink tea out of your best porcelain cup.
Aquire accountability. A friend; online; a streaks app. A row of post-its on the wall can be thrilling!
Hydrate. . .
. . .so that you can drink wine in the bath, of course.
May victory be yours,
LMxx
P.S. If you’d like to be the very first to read my new novel, join the ARC team here!
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