Novel-writing: Know When to Walk Away
Know when to run--or stay
a post written in response to a subscriber-writer’s question — please let me know of any writing-related questions on your minds. Email: alison@alisonacheson.com
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I’ll start by saying that this is not going to be an easy post. But it’s necessary. It’s part of this crazy-mad thing of being a writer.
I’ve posted about how to find your way back into a long-abandoned piece, and just a handful of days ago posted When to Begin Your Next Project (which is—sort of—possibly—related).
But this one is particularly tough when you’re looking at a project close to your heart and gut, one that’s been with you through a decade or more, maybe a program or worked through multiple drafts with a writing group… Note that I am not talking about abandoning a project halfway through a first draft or after six months. (Though adjust the read for your own question, and post thoughts in the comments below. I’m hoping all of this will bring some discussion.)
I’m talking about when you might have an agent on the hook, and when you have the feeling that this is tantamount to abandoning one’s self. Years of self.
It can take weeks and months to even realize that maybe the best course is to abandon; the first step is to abandon denial. You are now looking at the real possibility that you are going to walk away from a story, from a set of characters. (And you know how I go on about referring to characters as people; you are about to leave people!)
But you might be starting to feel your sanity is at stake. Or that you need to explore another story. Or that this one, for myriad reasons, is just not working.
It may have been working; it may have had potential to work. That’s important to recognize: this story has been an important part of your life, and your writing self. But it doesn’t mean you have to stay with it for the rest of your life.
One issue with having worked on a manuscript for any length of time is that you change. If the story manages to stay on track with your initial vision, you may have grown (we do that!) too much to continue with that vision. Or the manuscript has been around for so long that it’s actually shifted through a series of themes, and has become so fragmented that it no longer feels to be of-a-piece.
When you’ve invested years, it can be something like giving up on a long-term relationship.
And if other people are involved—say you’re at the point of working with an agent, or worse, an editor (in which case you have contractual issues—which is a bit beyond my scope, and you might have to speak with your publisher and even a lawyer), then reach out and ask, but know that, ultimately, it is YOU who counts. An experienced agent should have taken you on not for one project, but because they are interested in you as a writer… and they can wait for the next project.
Let’s look at options before walking away
decide on a time limit, and be strict with yourself. e.g. “I’m going to give myself six weeks, work daily, and if it hasn’t progressed, still feels the same, I’ll walk away”
or: “I’m going to set this aside until I’ve finished the first draft of a new project, and then return to it.” (Implicit here is a “maybe”—but you can think about that later. For now, focus on the new work, and know the old can be waiting for you)
ponder what it is to let go enough to see what else this work might be. Are there stories within the whole that can work as short fiction? Might it become a collection of connected stories?
continue as you have been, fiddling with paragraphs, working with characters with whom you no longer feel connected, taking to heart the comments of your writing group, your agent, your mom, and feeling as if time is doing miserable things to you…
Somewhere between walking away, and moving on
so let’s just say that crossed-off bit above cannot happen! Maybe go on vacation to create a real break from the work, or paint a room. Set a date, though for when you will return to writing—and write something else
evaluate where your gut is: do you dread sitting with the project? Like any question about mental health: how long have you felt like this? If it’s been a few months or more, consider the walk, or run. Or are there moments or times where this project gives you a deep—deep—sense of “rightness”… I’m going to call it. (If you have other words for this, please share!) If so, listen. Listen to your gut
what are you afraid of, if you walk away? what do you think/feel will happen?
know that you can, really, come back to this if you must. Short of burning it. And we’re not going to discuss that
Once you’ve moved on
know that it’s safely in a drawer or computer file, but you never have to look at it again if you don’t want
know that, no matter how long it has taken, no time is ever wasted writing—ever!
do NOT beat yourself up about this. If an intense time of being dedicated to the writing of a novel is akin to a long-term relationship, and it’s turned into some form of misery, walk away and go on. Few friends or counselors would advise you to persist in a relationship that is not bringing you a sense of something positive. Even when writing is tough—even very tough—there should be a sense that it is worthwhile. If you’ve lost the sense of “worthwhile” then re-think
with every project, at the end, I feel a bit of post-partum. After many years of writing, and many project, that’s the reality for me. There’s also a piece of elation. (And a mad rush of home-fixing and -making, which is both boring and terribly useful… but that’s another piece)
let the post-partum happen for the unfinished, too—do what you need. Go hear music and dance. Read. Vacuum. Whatever you need to do. Look through notes you’ve scribbled about new and possible projects. Work on something short—a poem, a piece of short fiction, an article. Something you can finish in relatively (and, oh it’ll feel relatively!) short order. It will feel good to complete something
P.S.
When I down-sized five years ago, moving from 2600 square feet to 1100, and getting rid of about 70% of belongings, I had to go through shelves and filing cabinets of old manuscripts. There were at least two full novels, some beginnings of more, and boxes of notebooks of ideas. I did keep a couple of the notebooks. I knew that neither of the novels was in my computer—they were too old. I also knew I’d never re-write them. And if I did, I’d be working from the ideas that were in them, not the words. So I tossed. I also tossed about five hundred snail mail rejection letters. Sometimes, it’s just Time. And your gut lets you know.
No, I’m not saying you have to do this. I am saying that I know what it feels like to make the choice. Both novels had sat for years…
Please share thoughts! We need some discussion...
This is where I am at right now… Not sure where to go…. Thank you
I love your phrase a deep-deep-sense of “rightness” that creates this giddy, inexplicable lightening of your heart. That makes you sit at the computer or pick up a pen to write, even if you’re in the middle of doing something important. Sometimes this feeling smacks me in the chest and I jump over the shoes left in the middle of my living room floor to get to my desk.
But there is also another word that has been a miracle for me to fall in love with writing again. And again.
Curiosity.
The credit goes to Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, Big Magic, where she talks about being more curious than you’re frightened of creating.
Curiosity works not just for winning over the fear of creativity. It also opens your creative mind to endless possibilities. When I’m working on a project for a client or when I’m writing an essay about being a black woman working in white institutions or when I’m writing a short literary fiction, I’m CURIOUS to see where writing would take me. I’m curious to read the sentences I’ve written. I’m curious to find out my thoughts on a memory that happened years ago or what I’m thinking about my relationship with my dad.
Whenever you feel boredom or dread when you think of writing the next article or book or whatever, try curiosity. Be curious to see what you can create and who you will be after your creation. And boredom or dread will start sleeping in the bottom of your bed.