The Writer's Journey

Some people have asked me about the process of writing a novel. Is it fun? It is exciting? Is it frustrating? Is it depressing?

I admit that a few of these ‘people’ are not real people. They are figments of my imagination, created by and residing in the nether regions of my increasingly schizophrenic mind. Nevertheless, I will answer the question, to satisfy myself, even if it serves no practical purpose.

My answer is that it is fun, exciting, frustrating and depressing. The thing is that I love to write. I wrote my first short story when I was ten years old. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night with a desperate craving to write. Tonight is one such night.

However, writing an article or a blog or a short story is all very well. I can get the whole thing done in an hour or two. Writing a full-length novel is an altogether different ball game. I can say, with conviction, that writing a novel is the hardest thing I have ever attempted to do so far in my life. By the same token, I believe it is also the most ambitious.

The task requires a tremendous amount of patience and self-discipline. I have to stick with my plot day-after-day even when it is the least interesting thing in the world to me. The work of a novel continues for an extended period of time, sometimes for more than a year. Initially, any story idea seems thrilling. But, after a few chapters, the initial excitement fades and I have to fight to keep my story alive. Almost every writer experiences the same thing. Believe me, I’ve read tons of interviews and biographies of published authors. Sometime midway through the story, all writers get another ‘better’ idea and are tempted to quit the current, lackluster project and move to the new one. But that is the kiss of death for a novelist. It is the duty and responsibility of the author to give the current story a chance to run its course.

As a novel writer, I have to make endless decisions daily. I have to conjure up plots and subplots, character arcs and scene transitions. I have to concern myself with dialogue tags, sentence structure, paragraph length, repeated words. Most importantly, I have to get my bum in the chair every day to write. This is easier said than done.

Many people believe that for a writer, or for any other artist, producing their work is all a matter of inspiration. What a misconception that is. Inspiration comes to those who put in blood, sweat and tears.

There are some days when I do feel truly inspired. The blood rushes through my veins and the words flow onto the page like running water from an open tap. The characters begin to make choices and take actions that surprise and delight me. This is when I take a step back from the keyboard and shake myself with glee. ‘Wow. It’s alive. It’s alive’ I tell myself.

But such days are rare. They arrive as often as sunny days in Seattle during the month of December. On most days, I come to the blank page and have no idea what to write. My mind is swarming with all the different plots and subplots, the various locations for the action, the motivations of the characters, the links between the scenes, and so on. It is a labyrinth of formidable proportions that I have to grapple with. The cursor on my Word document blinks at me incessantly. ‘Write something. Write something’ it seems to taunt me. But I don’t know what happens next in the story. I don’t know how to resolve the subplot. I don’t know how or where this action will take place. I don’t know how to smoothly move to the next scene. I don’t know anything. I tear my hair in frustration. I can never do this. I can’t be a writer. Who was I kidding?

I have a couple of whiskey shots and wait for the feeling to pass. The difference between a real novelist and a wannabe is that a novelist finishes the manuscript. So, the next day, I go at it again. Word-by-word, I inch forward towards the finish line.

Sometimes, I get a vision. I am at Crosswords bookstore, a favorite hang-out of mine while growing up. It is my book signing event. I sit on a large table and there is a big banner behind me. In front of me, there is a line of people waiting to get my autograph on their copy of my latest novel.

The shrill sound of my alarm clock blurs the vision. My dream felt so real. It is a recurring dream that refuses to leave me. I log into my laptop and the cursor on the empty page blinks insistently. I rub my eyes, crack my knuckles and hit the keyboard. This is my reality. That was my dream. I close my eyes and I am at Crosswords again, signing books. I open them and the page before me is blank.

I know my goal, my destination. But, I don’t have the faintest clue how to get there, when I’ll get there, or even if I’ll ever get there. I don’t have a roadmap. I don’t have a compass. Still, I keep walking down that road, one step at a time. I may make a few wrong turns along the way, but I believe in my heart that if I stay the course long enough, I will reach the destination.

I fight a long, lonely battle, but the journey is magical. Every stage is to be savored. The race is long and in the end it is only with myself.