Breaking Up Is So Hard To Do

I remember the first time I believed I’d finish a book. No, not reading a book.

Writing a book.

By some miracle, I’d sat down at my laptop almost every single day for over a month and etched out over thirty thousand words of some drab office romance. When I look back on the effort, I have to laugh. I don’t even read office romances. In fact, I don’t even read contemporary romance.

Almost all of my reading time goes to epic fantasies, dated paranormal romances, a sprinkle of literary fiction, and the occasional memoir.

Side note: No one is asking, but I misspelled the word “occasional” three times in that last paragraph before finally getting it right. That word is my most enduring nemesis.

I'd somehow gotten this idea into my head that writing realistic fiction—a story grounded in my reality—would be easier than writing fantasy or paranormal romance. “It’s my first book,” I said. “I should take it easy. Besides, creativity isn’t where my strength lies as a writer anyway.”

So I slogged through a few ten thousand words as I banged out almost half of a novel. I even met with a professional editor to get feedback on my process and have her poke holes in my ideas.

And, trust me, she poked many a hole in that mess of a manuscript.

Remarkably, I didn’t walk away from that experience feeling dejected. Quite the opposite: I felt invigorated and ready to continue wrangling that story. I credit my enthusiasm to that editor’s approach to constructive criticism and her really solid, sobering advice.

As soon as the call with her ended, I dived headlong into my in-progress project, eager to make some of the process changes the editor had suggested: I didn’t write another word before creating an outline, I reevaluated the stakes, and I committed to NOT editing while I wrote.

The words came more quickly after that, and some of the stress of crafting the story seemed to dissipate. But only for a week or two. Once I hit thirty-five thousand words, I hit another wall.

The same wall I’d hit before.

My story felt nonsensical. The stakes seemed laughable. And, quite frankly, my draft was still a hot mess, most of which was not salvageable.

Frustrated with myself, I unofficially shelved the project. “Unofficial” in the sense that I just stopped writing. I hated to walk away from that project because I’d never written so many words; I’d also never written so many incoherent words, but let’s ignore that.

This failed attempt became proof to my past self that I didn’t have the chops for storytelling. I thought that maybe I just wasn’t cut out for creative writing. After all, I’d tried and failed several times.

I’m glad I didn’t fall for my own lie.

About a month into my hiatus, I decided I’d try writing a new story, but this time I’d give the story its bones before I put the proverbial pen to paper. I’d take the time to properly outline and flesh out the heroes. I also made another decision: This time around I’d write in the same genres I read. By the end of my outlining period, I’d thought up a tale set in a world very unlike my own, complete with a potentially romantic subplot.

I’d thought up something I’d like to read.

Two months later, I had an outline so prescriptive that, when I finally started writing again, the words flowed so naturally. A wellspring of creativity I didn’t know I possessed burst forth from me.

I had always loved to read fantasy, and now I was writing it.

Why hadn’t I done that before?

At first, I’d told myself that starting with office romance would be easier—that it would be less creatively taxing—that it would give me time to “ramp up.” But was that true? My manuscript had admittedly gone up in flames long before I’d reached the thirty-five thousand word mark. That story had strangled every word I gave it out of me.

In retrospect, I’d been condescending. I’d believed that the office romance would be easier to write because it “required less creativity.” Then I’d failed at this thing that I’d deemed easy.

Humble pie never tastes as good as victory, but it’s an integral part of a balanced diet.

So office romances aren’t a walk in the park, but, as it turns out, fantasy is, for me, a stroll through an arboretum on a perfect spring day. There’s a moral there, but I’m not in the habit of beating people over the head with sticks.

I guess I’ll leave you with this tired—yes, you read that right—and true piece of advice instead: Write what you read.

But don’t read what you write. Read everything.