This year I played a little game called Let’s Write a Novel, where I attempted to deviate from my usual route and write an opus of 90K+ words. I even joined a new novel-writing group to get feedback, encouragement, and get myself to the finish line. And then, about six sad little chapters later I realized I was writing the worst book ever put to paper. RIP to the trees that had to die for the trash I was going to try and pawn off on readers everywhere.
Still, I was not deterred. I was going to write a novel in 2015 or die trying. I dusted off an old idea for a young adult trilogy and wrote what I thought were five amazing pages. FIVE. PAGES. Luckily I hadn’t dug too deeply into the idea before I realized that this, too, was not going to work.
What I came to realize in the fourth quarter of the year was, I don’t really want to write a novel. I don’t. I was writing one because people kept asking me, “Where’s your novel?” The truth is I’m a short-story writer. I enjoy taking a snapshot of a character’s experience and laying it out for the reader in words. I’m still learning how to perfect the skill but can still admit that I’m pretty great at it.
To try and force a novel out of me right now was just foolish. So I’m not going to do it anymore. I’m not going to commit to a novel unless I feel in my bones that the story I need to tell can’t be contained to 25 typed, double-spaced pages.
Don’t ask me where is my novel anymore, because it doesn’t exist and isn’t even on the horizon. Instead, I invite you to inquire about what stories I’m working on. They’re fun and exciting and practically alive in my head. And they’re what’s owed my full attention.
xoxo,
Raquel Ivelisse