Writing a novel, becoming a novelist
From daydreaming to a living dream
Sometimes, I can’t believe I got here. Most times, I live the dream, aware of what it took to get there, grateful to be here, enjoying it in pure presence, forgetting with ease that there was a time when it looked and felt like such a faraway dream, an impossible pursuit, unimaginable. And yet, I got here. It took time, introspective digging, both slowness and impulsivity. I’m here. I’m writing a novel. I’ve been writing it for a year and a half. I’m working hard on the second draft. I’m really doing it. I’m writing a novel. I’m a novelist.
A dream I wouldn’t dare to dream
I’ve been wanting to write a novel for as long as I can remember, but it never felt like something I could actually do or attain, a goal I could work towards, a dream I could actually dare to dream. At the core of the distance, dissonance and discrepancy between the dream and my reality, in the invisible suffering of my subconscious, heart and soul, I was the one blocking myself from my dream, with tools and wands of procrastination and limiting beliefs, with the helpful distraction of other work projects, dreams and ideas, with excuses of time and money, in the dance of limiting beliefs and fears, grasping at real life issues to not dive into the truth of what I wanted to live, be and accomplish. And I say this now with all the awareness, compassion and forgiveness in the world for my past self, intently knowing that I did my best, that it couldn’t have been any other way and that this whole avoidance waltz led me exactly to where I was meant to be, right here, right now, writing this very novel, The Antarctic Bridge.
When I look back, I would have had the strength, the energy, the time, resources, ideas, the craft to write a few novels. And instead, I travelled the world nomadically, wrote over 800 long-form blog articles, translated a few books and countless documents, created a brand on social media, did many other jobs and led countless projects, read a few hundreds of books, wrote newsletters, Masterclasses and courses, filled up many journals, wrote a film, a pilot, a few shorts, a few graphic fiction screenplays, an unfinished non-fiction book, started a few memoirs manuscripts and wrote my first book, L’Envol, a memoir.
In the midst of these passionate, important and beautiful endeavours, I never gave life to the characters and ideas that were coming to visit, never answering their calls beyond a few brainstorming and notes sessions, never daring, always distracting, hiding, or rather building up to where I was heading, right here, right now.
A persistent idea
A year and a half ago, an idea came to visit. I was already nursing, from afar, a screenplay idea, but I wasn’t really starting it. That day, I was walking on the hills of Edinburgh, taking in the scenery and visions for my life and the world, when it hit me, like a ton of bricks, like a flock of birds, like an idea that couldn’t be denied. It must have been a morning or a weekend. It must have come at a time where I was positive, full of energy and ready to welcome something new. I was probably in the right mindset and at the right point in time in my moon cycle. It was a beautiful day of November. Nanowrimo had barely just begun. I came home, wrote the idea down on a new notebook and started writing. I wrote 10,000 words in 8 sporadic and hectic days.
That idea, that story, those characters stuck. They were haunting me. They wouldn’t let go. They had grabbed me and I was grabbing at them. An idea as a lifeboat, an anchor, a mast. I kept on writing, I kept on going, dedicated to this semblance of an idea, writing, at times regular and constant, always passionate, curious and open. I didn’t know where it was going, where I was going; I took breaks, but I never forgot it, and I always came back to the page, relentlessly wishing to get to the core of the idea, to the dream rhythm and life I was envisioning, one where my days, thoughts and voice would be filled with imagination, other worlds and writing.
In an instance, in one idea, the right one, the most persistent one, in my devotion to getting to the truth of my soul and of the story, I had found momentum and flow to finally try and be the novelist I had always dreamt to be, in the secrecy of my heart. It was still stuck in-between all my other projects, juggling, trying to control my world to finally one day get to be the novelist, have the time, do the thing, not realising I was already doing it… It was fleeting at times, but it was there. I was writing a novel and it wasn’t a fluke. I would get to the end of it. I would do something with it. I was on my path, in the right lane.
The first draft
It took me a bit over a year to finish the first draft of this ambitious and complex project. It took me six months to get to the dedication and devotion I was seeking, writing almost every day, 500 words minimum at a time, before any Muggle work (thank you Amie).
My idea had started in a very simple flash of insight, as they always do. The middle climax, twist, three characters, a location in the foreground of subjects, themes and genres that were constant obsession in my fiction work. That wasn’t a lot to go on, but it was enough to get me hooked. I don’t plot or plan, especially in the first draft. I let the story completely unravel as it wishes, not judging it or trying to fix it before it’s time. This means I have zero idea what the story is about, what will be the twists and turns of it, which character will be doing what, what will be the end, the plot, nor how we will get there. Beyond the flash, everyday, every word, every sentence, every paragraph, I discover the world, patterns, connections, how it all articulates. It’s a true channeling process, a pouring out ideas coming through in the moment. At this point, it’s not even about imagination. And it’s enough to hook me in, for me to want to write more, so I can know what will happen and the end of the story. I discover the story while I write it and it’s enough to keep me going.
I wrote and wrote again. It was almost always joyful, flowy and surprising, in one way or another. If one day was a struggle to come to the page or to let words flow, I knew the next day would be better. I kept on coming back, in the joy of writing and uncovering the magic that was unfolding under my fingers. On the last few days of the first draft, I wrote 15,000 words (5,000 on the last day) eager to know the end, finishing as I had started, in a rush of adrenaline and dopamine, in the joy and depth of the story, just as the book you can’t put down and finish reading long past midnight.
The second draft
I took a long break. I was self-publishing my first book, I was going through a hard personal winter and I was absolutely exhausted. I reread the draft slowly, writing down what was good, what was bad, what needed to be edited. It took me a few weeks, a few months. I was dreading the redraft, the second draft, my own personal hell.
I needed to reinvent a routine, a writing space, fumble my way towards a new process, learn how to enjoy the rewriting and editing, appreciate the slowness, the middle roughness, the core of the writing process, to find how it could be fun, how I could make the process mine, what it meant for me to be a writer. This was brand new to me. I had written a film before and had fumbled through three or four redrafts, in such a tight deadline (2 months to write a film, give or take) that I just bulldozed my way through it, enjoying the rush of it all, rather than the slow building process.
I believed in the story now. I was amazed by it and how it had appeared on the blank pages of my computer. I believed in myself too and in my capacity to write, to devote myself, to finish a book, to write fiction. I was restructuring all my routines, patterns and energetic imprints. I was learning how to slow down, how to enjoy the thrill of a story slowly being shaped and reshaped to be understood and be made better. It wasn’t anymore about me finding out what was the story about. It was about making it available, understandable, readable by others. It wasn’t about me anymore, it was already about making an offering to the world.
I dove into research, getting way too many books at the library. I made space in my life, in my flat, in my writing space, in my time, in my heart and soul. And while I was struggling to move forward with only 30 min or 1 hour of editing a day, as it wasn’t enough for me to get into the groove of my writing, as soon as I gave myself permission, space and time to really focus on it, to dedicate 2 or 3 hours every morning (this will keep on expanding), I found a treasure, the joy of editing, of playing, of crafting, of shaping and reshaping, of creating through a more rational and structured perspective. And I’m already eager for the next drafts, which is completely new for me.
Writing at the core
The first draft was about the excitement to find out what the story was about. The second draft was my excitement to share the story in the future. Research is a guilty personal pleasure. I find joy, momentum and flow in every part of the process. I’m on my way. I’m doing it.
A new idea for a new non-fiction book has knocked at the door and is already shaping itself in my mind and soul, but I’m not ready yet to get distracted or to add it into my world just yet. There is also a creativity course that’s brewing. But none of these are priorities, excuses or distractions anymore. They are added layers and sweetness that stem from my writing experience and from my novel. And they will fit around my writing if there is space. The writing doesn’t have to be fit in anymore.
It’s at the core of who I am, who I be, what I do.
Getting ready for the next drafts
I’m gearing myself up for a self-directed writing retreat on the last week of August, offline, focusing solely on the novel and nothing else. It’s something I’ve been dreaming of doing and expanding into, but never quite made happen, because… you know… excuses. I’m excited to see how it expands my writing, my craft, my vision, my practice, my time, the novel and how it will lead me into the deepening of my practice and my art. The next newsletter of The Alma Writer will come to you right after that week, drawing on the lessons and experience of that retreat.
I’ll also be travelling this fall, as well as finishing my shamanic practitioner training which means that routine will somehow, someway, be out of the window. I remain devoted to the novel and want to work on reinventing a “routine”, where the road and travel are in service to my art, because in the past, I have absolutely loved writing, imagining and daydreaming in flow, in movement, on the road. The travel blogger in me is ready to serve the novelist. And it’s something I would love to rekindle and play with this fall.
I’m hoping to finish the second draft by October. And find my way slowly through the next drafts. And onward…
So this is. I got here. I’m writing a novel. I’m a novelist. Right now.
Dreams do come true, when you believe them and work towards them.
Where are you at in your becoming?
I’m curious to know about your own process of writing a novel, or becoming the artist you’d always wanted to be, where you are at and who you are expanding into.
Would you let me know and share in the comments? I can’t wait to read you.
Move beyond and past the dreams into reality
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