a few weeks ago i realized that, deep down, i don’t actually believe i’ll finish writing my novel.
i am surprised i let myself notice this. even just admitting the thought — i don’t believe i will finish writing my novel — feels like failure. but i felt it in the pit of my stomach as i was walking around the block the other day, reflecting on my morning meditation.
Via an app I pay $19.99/mo for, my spiritual teacher (a very wealthy white woman who, before becoming a meditation teacher and motivational speaker, studied theatre at Syracuse) urged me to breathe in, breathe out, and visualize myself fulfilling my dreams. “See yourself in the experience you desire. Now take a deep breath in and release these desires to the care of the Universe.”
the care of the universe? release??? sure babe. instead i tried to mentally hyper-organize my plan for the day so that I could efficiently and effectively achieve all of my dreams within 24 hours. after the meditation i’d make some slow cooked scrambled eggs with spinach. amazing. then i’d go for a walk with my partner, tackling light exercise, vitamin D intake, and relationship care all at the same time. perfect. my insides fluttered. i was dazzling myself with my commitment to health and well-being. i’d do some work-work later, but before then, i’d dedicate an hour to sitting down with my novel manuscript, the one that’s been lingering around 28,000 words.
the light inside me was, almost immediately, snuffed out. the buzz in my chest turned into a stone in my stomach. for the first time, my inner monologue was bold enough to say it out loud to me: you’re not ever actually going to finish this novel.
i tried to “see myself in my desire” — finishing that first draft — and i couldn’t. i tried harder. my brain squinted. i could kinda see it. i could kinda see finishing that first draft. but then i tried to picture myself editing 90,000 (ish? idk) words and i was out again.
to finish a novel, you have to literally just sit down and type things into a document. the sentences can be like “she went to the store. at the store, she bought beans. she went home and cooked them.” they can be bad. all you do is type enough sentences to make a complete story, and once you’ve done that, you have your draft. right?? am i missing something?? so like, i COULD finish this novel, and you could also write a novel, if we just sat down long enough to write a novel. and same with revising: i could send the draft to friends, i could comb through it until it looks as good as i think i can make it look, and once i’ve done that, i will have revised my manuscript.
so it disturbs me how quick i am to believe that i physically cannot do this thing that really just requires me to show up for it. do i really have that little faith in myself?
i find it very difficult to do hard things, and to stay disciplined. that’s magnified by not knowing what will become of this project. if i finish, will anyone else read it? will it get published? will it be liked? it’s hard to work at a job and chores and relationships and then also cut into rest & relaxation time by working more, on a project that might only be for me. this is where the “why” comes in — i think that maybe writing projects are more sustainable if we work on them because of our own spiritual need to, because there is some sort of Self-led knowledge that expressing this particular story in this particular way will bring us closer to the version of ourselves that we want to be.
i have found myself, instead, wondering if writing will make me outwardly successful. when i daydream about writing, sure, i think about what will happen next in the scene i’m working on, or i build out character backgrounds, personality traits, and accompanying behaviors. but i also think about how cool i’d look if i got a book deal. i think about the hot literary girls in LA finally following me back on instagram (dream big). i imagine getting a ton of subs on dear diary because people have begun to actually care what i have to say. i dream of the ways that writing a book will affect the outward appearance of me, and how that will finally make me feel seen.
and i think a part of me knows that, even if i got a book deal, i will probably not feel seen. i have been lucky to have plenty of amazing friends and even strangers read my fiction, and i still don’t feel “seen,” because tbh i don’t even know what the fuck that means lol. i think it means to feel witnessed, respected, understood, and appreciated. but haven’t i felt that so many times by so many people? i feel it by all of you who subscribe to dear diary, and your comments and texts and emails. and still, i don’t feel the satisfaction of being seen. it doesn’t make logical sense. i think it’s because i hold this fantasy that writing is a way i can control the narrative about me (it’s not) and fill some insatiable desire to be recognized, noticed, and admired by people. i suspect that even if it were to happen in a big way, it would still not be enough.
“I don’t think I am going to finish my novel” is a limiting belief in a few ways. first, it feeds the part of me that fears that i do not have the stamina to do something hard. continually feeding that fear with thoughts like “yeah and if i do finish it, it probably won’t even be good and the publishing industry is dying and what is dad gonna think about the sex scenes” etc just makes that fear part grow bigger, and the bigger it gets, the more deflated i feel before i even sit down to write. of course i won’t want to do something hard if i believe it will result in no satisfaction, in nothing. of course that doesn’t motivate me to get to my desk.
and second, “I don’t think I am going to finish my novel” is a limiting belief because it’s derived from my ego. it comes from a part of me that believes that the value of finishing my novel is that it will make others think something positive about me. it’s not coming from the part of me that wants to write to transform, to express a deep truth, and to spiritually fulfill what i allow myself, in my strongest and surest moments, to believe is a calling. thinking that i won’t finish my novel is limiting because it prevents me from getting to know a deeper part of myself that is less concerned with external validation and more curious about internal growth. and i feel like that part of me must be cooler than the part that just wants everyone to think she’s cool.
I relate to this so hard, especially as someone with ADHD - the number of novels I've started because I was excited and then stopped because I was overwhelmed or couldn't find the motivation... countless. What makes it even trickier is that I've spent so much of my early writing days (and still now) writing fanfiction, which gives you that instant gratification and serotonin boost when someone likes or comments on it, and I've gotten used to that feeling. (And honestly it's probably one of the reasons I started a Substack, too. It just feels good)
"i think that maybe writing projects are more sustainable if we work on them because of our own spiritual need to, because there is some sort of Self-led knowledge that expressing this particular story in this particular way will bring us closer to the version of ourselves that we want to be."
AMEN! I also feel like we (I) need to understand that we already are the version of ourselves we are MEANT to be. Like, we should always strive to be learning and growing, but we're still us throughout that process. The self is a spectrum (?) We carry all the things. IDK!