The First Novel: A Tale of Love and Tragedy (mostly tragedy)

For years, whenever I tinkered with the idea of writing a novel, I inevitably hit the same brick wall. What on earth do I write about? What if it stinks? Writing a novel is a serious commitment, after all. I certainly didn’t want to hitch myself to a novel that stinks. 

But where to begin? Which genre to choose? Historical, contemporary, suspense, romantic suspense—they each held qualities I knew I enjoyed reading. How did I know which type of story I was best suited to write? 

Then one day this cute story premise came along and snagged my attention. My heart pitter-pattered and I just knew. This was the one. The story I’d been waiting for. The story I was meant to write. The story that would stick with me from that day forward, for better or worse, in good reviews and bad good reviews, till public domain do us part.

To put it simply, I fell in love.    

The life of a writer became a glorious thing. I couldn’t spend enough time with my novel. Every chapter revealed another facet of charm, another level of wit, another unexpected thrill. Who needed food to eat or air to breathe when you could put words to the page? Especially my words.

Part of me couldn’t wait to share the novel with the entire world. The other part of me—the part that sounded a little more rational and said things like “maybe you should finish it first before you share it with the entire world”—cautioned me to be patient.  

So I was. Until it was finished. Then I couldn’t wait another minute. At the very least, I had to introduce my novel to my family. I knew they’d love it as much as I did. As would an agent, an editor, a publishing house…

But then a weird thing happened. 

Yes, my family was excited to read it, but afterwards… Well, I couldn’t help but notice a few things. A lack of enthusiasm for starters.

I’d expected to be flooded with phone calls and text messages telling me how wonderful they found each and every page. Instead I flooded my telephone provider with concerns my service must not be working.

“Well?” I asked my family when I couldn’t stand their silence any longer. “What did you think?”

I didn’t know which of their responses baffled me more—my dad confessing he hadn’t read past the first chapter, my mom admitting she found parts of it confusing, or my mother-in-law telling me the entire manuscript was flabby and needed to be trimmed. 

Boring? Confusing? Flabby? 

What novel had they read? Surely not mine.

Then another weird thing happened.

After setting my novel aside for a bit, I picked it up again. Those traits I initially found so charming and adorable…weren’t all that charming or adorable. They bordered on annoying.   

Oh no. My family was right. My novel stinks!

And yet…

I wasn’t ready to give up. The romantic in me wanted to believe we could still make it work. We could still be Harper Lee and To Kill A Mockingbird. We could still be those high school sweethearts who stayed together for the long haul. I’d invested way too much time into this relationship to walk away now. 

I rolled up my sleeves and recommitted. Read more books on the craft. Took my novel to therapy. Trimmed away the flab.

Time passed. I could tell I’d grown stronger as a writer. My novel had grown stronger as a story. But I could also tell we weren’t there yet. More work needed to be done.   

And though I was ready to roll my sleeves higher and keep going, my novel pulled me aside one night and said those ill-fated words every couple dreads…

“We need to talk.” 

My novel was tired. My novel couldn’t take another round of changes. My novel wanted to die. “Put me away in a drawer and just let me be,” it pleaded. “I already know you’re ready to start seeing other stories.”

But… But… But…

I had no argument. Because it was true. I had been thinking about a different premise for a new story. And as much as I wanted to cling to my first love, er…novel, I knew I couldn’t hold onto it forever. Not if I wanted to continue growing as a writer.

So I took a moment to be thankful for that first novel. Took a moment to be grateful for the mistakes I made writing it. A moment to appreciate the lessons I learned in making those mistakes. 

Then I placed it away in a drawer. Rolled up my sleeves.

And went to work writing the next story.

What about you? Any first loves you had to walk away from? Maybe stuff dead in a drawer? I’d love to hear about it. Especially if your first love was a person you stuffed dead in a drawer. I might use that for my next story.