I’ve started writing a new novel, and we’re in the honeymoon phase together, my novel and I. I’m infatuated with this shiny new idea, digging into the research with wild abandon and gleefully exploring my new characters. It’s like starting any new relationship—I have thousands of questions for my characters to learn who they are and hundreds of possibilities for where our story together might go. And I have to admit, that new-car scent is downright intoxicating.
It’s not just a one-way infatuation, either. My new story is also in love with me. It’s whispering sweet nothings into my ear day and night: “What if this happens?” “What if our protagonist tries that?” “What if we turn up the pressure here, or rip away something vital there?” My story plays with dangerous scenarios, and I fall for its lures, thinking about it all the time, lying awake at night imagining what we can do and where we can go next.
Every writer loves this honeymoon stage of writing a book. The stage when everything in the story wears the filmy, iridescent gauze of wonder and enchantment and unwavering destiny. We walk along hand-in-hand, my story and I, knowing that this time, everything will work perfectly, smoothly, miraculously. We’ll never have a single fight. We’ll never question our loyalties. We’ll never misjudge or suspect each other of succumbing to cliches or weak scenes.
But, reality and relationships being what they are, we both know better. At some point, I’ll spend some of my limited writing time with a blog post or a critique of a friend’s manuscript instead of with my story, and my story will accuse me of cheating on it. Or I’ll try to force a character to act in a certain way “because I need to build up more tension,” and my story’s feelings will be hurt by my blatant disregard for its own autonomy. Or I’ll go out of town for the weekend and not even take my laptop.
That’s when my story will begin to question my motives. It will clam up and tell our characters to stop talking to me. It will throw red herrings at me by the handfuls, and not the helpful ones I could actually insert into the plot, either—no, the stinky week-old herrings that make it hard to breathe, let alone write.
Then, somewhere around the halfway or three-quarters mark of the first draft will come the hardest part of the relationship—deciding if what we had once is worth fighting to get back. We’ll ask each other if we still care enough to work together towards a common goal. If we love each other enough to make the sacrifices of long hours, purposeful efforts, and kind words. If, deep in our hearts, we can commit to accomplishing something bigger and more meaningful together than we can accomplish apart.
If we’re lucky, we’ll dig deep and find that we do, in fact, still believe in each other. We’ll recommit to each other and begin the last leg of the journey. And when we finally reach the end, we’ll take a moment to look back and appreciate all we’ve accomplished.
We did it together. That warm glow of mutual love and respect will pulse within us both.
Then we’ll start the revision of our rough-hewn draft, and it will all begin anew.
[Photo by Lucas George Wendt https://unsplash.com/@lucasgwendt on Unsplash]
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