what it’s like writing a novel…

People ask what it’s like writing a novel.

I’ve only written one ‘real’ novel, but I have been writing stories my entire life. Some short. Some long. Some for years. But to answer what it’s like to write a book?

Well.

It’s kind of fascinating getting to know your characters.

We write them, yes. Write them into existence. But as the author…at least for me… it’s like I discover them in my brain. Like they start out blurry somewhere in the universe of my imagination, and then the more I squint at them, the more they come into focus.

When I’m walking the dog or washing dishes or driving and my mind has a minute to drift into the world of the novel, I think about these people. They float around with me.

Honestly, the characters always start out pretty bland and par for the course. Far too similar to each other and far too similar to me. What I know. How I would think.

And then, like play doh, you get to play with them.  
Change them, mold them. Separate them. Realize that oh, this character is actually incredibly scientific and nonverbal, and getting inside her head is such a joy. What would Beckett think about this? How would she phrase that? What actually matters to her?
Why is Kate grieving so deeply? What is she searching for? Why does she need it?
Talk like Mae. Get in her dialect, her stream of thinking. Breathe her in.

My brain starts out in cliches. When I can, I try to make the thoughts more distinct. Weirder if I can pull it off. More real. Imperfect. More true to the character. And life.

Truth be told, I don’t know these friends before I write them. I have an idea, yes. But they become. It’s like I watch them unfurl themselves and change. Sometimes they surprise me. Sometimes I feel like I understand them completely. Sometimes I think for hours (off and on, because #momlife) about what makes another who they are. Wrestle with it.

I’ve read books that are just fluff and crap.
Which is how most books start out.
At least, mine do.
But I want so badly to separate from the crap.
I really like trying to weave that fluff into something sturdy.
Something that holds.

It might work.
It might not.
I hope it does.

Voice is a thing. Yes. But to find the voice, you have to listen for it. In this case of the novel I’m working on now, listen for her. Each of my women who tell the story, I need to think less and listen more. They usually give. And they inherently move the story forward.

Which leads to that whole plot thing. Oh, plots. They are great fun and also very jumbled for a bit.  I have a very loose, very blurry scaffolding of “It will start like this, and it will end like this!”  The middle needs planning, but with a very loose grip. A willingness to veer.  Often a turn comes that I didn’t plan, and I simply must follow that road. Other times, I think something very specific will happen, only to realize that’s not it at all. I get stuck. I jump ahead when I need to. I skip details that matter. I go too far down rabbit holes that don’t. I write what I know I will delete later. I try something new.

Writing is very messy.

The process is different for each author. I start with a general plan and just putting everything I can on paper. Somehow, Word is still my go-to. A document that holds this little piece of my soul called a novel, with made-up characters who feel as familiar to me as real people.

The chapters are in the wrong places; the timing isn’t congruent; the characters aren’t consistent; the voices need sharpening. Refining. Chiseling. Detailing.

I have to print it out and arrange it. Re-arrange. Shift.  Edit.

I have to send some of it to friends who will say I LOVE IT! and also – can you do x here to help y?

I have to re-read it to get in the zone. I have to be proud of what I’m writing. Even if it’s not even close to the final version.

I have to read other books, good books. Ones that say things in totally different ways, and have characters who aren’t textbook, who aren’t cliché, who aren’t perfect, who aren’t predictable, who aren’t like me. Writing that is clever or downright beautiful. Different. Writing I love, and writing I don’t. And I channel that into what I type. Let me imitate that unusual voice, but see how it looks on this character. Let me try a strange idea, and see if it works. Let me see what words spill out. Let me write what I know, and what I don’t.

Writing takes a long time.
I wish it didn’t.

Sometimes it hits suddenly, and I have to stop what I’m doing and go put down those sentences that hatched in my brain, that I didn’t even know two seconds earlier. Often it mulls and marinates and simmers in my brain until I can start typing and I see where it takes us.

I love it.
I love getting lost in it.

Writing is kind of magical, honestly.

You breathe life into a story.

And it comes alive.