Are we writing the wrong thing?
“It's hell writing and it's hell not writing. The only tolerable state is having just written.” ― Robert Hass
There’s a famous quote from some legendary author who’s name escapes me right now, that goes something like this:
Writing is pure pain. Not writing is agony. The only brief respite comes from just having written.
(It’s by Robert Hass, accurate quote in the header)
I cannot for the life of me remember who said that (and I’ve definitely paraphrased), but I think about this statement every. single. day.
I’ve been writing stories for my whole life. My first “book” was called Muddy Footprints. I was around 8 or 9 years old, and the story was about a very naughty cat that got up to mischief and painted the floors of their family home muddy with tales of his great adventures.
Next, I wrote a “chapter book”. It didn’t have many chapters, hence the inverted commas. But to me at the time, it felt like a great tome.
As far as I remember, this one didn’t yet have a name. But it was children’s fantasy following the classic Heroes Journey story structure. I don’t remember much from this story unfortunately but I do remember there being creatures with absolutely massive basketballs for heads for some reason? Anyway.
I’ve come a long way since Muddy Footprints and Unnamed Heroes Journey 1. I’ve continued to write, almost daily, with varying degrees of success. There is never not a great spiritual pull to write, even when I have absolutely no freaking clue what I will write about. The biggest change though, since my days of footloose and fancy free stories, is that writing has gotten a hell of a lot harder.
And yes, sure, it’s partly to do with the actual technical skill and taste required to produce something decent, but mostly, I think it’s because there’s a sad shift in our creative state as we get older. All of the awe, and wonder, and wild imagination we have as children slowly falls away, year after year.
I used to write fantastical stories about beasts and female heroes and mythical creatures and fairies that only ever made sense to me, purely for the fun of inventing the story. Now, as an adult, I want to write so bad that it causes actual physical pain. And then I agonise over the blank page and what the exact right way to start the story should be. When I do finally start to bleed words onto the page, there are tiny little voices of doubt in my head that begin as a soft whisper, and gradually get louder and louder until there’s a chorus and they’re telling me I suck and I’m talentless and this is stupid and no one will ever read this crap what in the audacity!?
No such voices existed in my sweet, innocent little child brain.
Only the hope that maybe, just maybe, one of my stories might be good enough to publish and that someone other than my loving mother might read them.
Earlier this year, I began working on my first novel as an adult. It’s a crime with a hint of tragedy, following Freytag’s Pyramid story structure. The whole thing is pretty fucking bleak. I was shooting for something with the essence of Donna Tartt but as I approached the halfway mark in my first draft, I realised three things:
I hate my characters. All of them. And not in any of the ways you might want to hate your characters.
This story is fucking boring. I wouldn’t read it, why would anyone else.
I have lost all drive and direction with this story, along with the motivation to find either of those things.
But I felt weirdly handcuffed to the story. Like the sunk cost fallacy. I’d already invested so much time and so many hours, might as well finish it right?
Wrong.
After the Auckland Writers Festival, I came away with a completely new perspective on writing, along with a very important observation about myself and the story I was trying to write. After a lot of self-reflection, I realised I had been trying to write the story I *think* I should write. The literary masterpiece that readers would lovingly compare to The Secret History. One that would start a bidding war with the first publisher I submitted to.
I realised too, that I have been living in a complete fucking fantasy.
Writing the book I don’t want to write, just because I think I should, not because it’s what, in my heart of hearts, I actually want to write about.
And so I pivoted.
I would like to personally thank Lauren Groff for this pivot because I feel like she gave me permission during her session at the Writers Fest to have multiple projects on the go, and focus your energy on the ones that excite you. That only having one project to focus on puts alooooottt of pressure and expectation on that one thing that can risk snuffing out any flame of potential that may exist.
Today, I ripped the bandaid off and wrote chapter one of my long-awaited, much joked about for the past six years, romance novel.
I mean it when I say joked.
I’ve been talking about writing Kindle Unlimited romance novels under a pen name for years and years.
But I never took it seriously as a writing genre because I am a big dumb idiot and also it was internalised misogyny parading as a dislike for a genre that I very much do, in fact like.
Writing chapter one felt fun again. Truly.
It feels cheesy and cliche, but even as I map out the key scenes and beats that I’ve already got in my head, I am having fun and enjoying fiction writing in a way I haven’t since… childhood.
Romance gives you so much room to play. It’s ok to be silly, and make dumb jokes and lighten the mood with something lame. If you’re having fun while writing, hopefully that translates into a reader having fun while reading.
I guess at the end of this, (I’m so shit at essays, I’m sorry. I guess consider this more of a brain dump blog?? idk) my point is to write what feels fun.
When writing is painful and every sentence feels like carving blood from a stone, maybe take a break at pick up a different projects with a different writing style that might give you a bit of outside perspective.
Or maybe, you’re just writing the wrong book.
In her Masterclass, Margaret Atwood constantly shares how the trash bin is your friend and it’s ok to toss the pages, even if you were almost finished drafting.
Now whether you decide to trash your life’s work or not, I think the point is that we need to free ourselves from the prisons of our own creation. It’s ok to stop a project, to pivot, to try something new or to just take a break entirely. Let go of the Sunk Cost Fallacy and just write what feels good.