wanting to be a writer vs actually writing

my partner got a lit agent and I LEARNED SOMETHING!!

Note: This is the first of a series exploring the work it takes to see a project through to completion. Find the second in the series at the link here!

---

I didn’t start actually writing fiction until mid-2020, when I decided to write a novel. I had gotten my creative writing undergraduate degree in 2013 but it was a double major, and the other major is what led to my current career. Returning to creative writing was so exciting. I felt playful and imaginative every time I sat down with the work. I started reading more—usually contemporary literary fiction—and following authors on Instagram or Twitter. Over time, this introduced me to the world of lit mags, which introduced me to stories by writers who were not famous and usually unpaid, which introduced me to the idea that I could be a non-famous, non-paid writer and still get my work published online.

My novel project chugged along, but it was slow. I had no consistent practice. I wrote when I was “inspired,” or when I wanted to. But I was on Twitter a lot. I was getting familiar with the lit mag scene: which mags were “cool” (I decided this based off whether the contributors were cool, and I decided that based off how disaffected their tweets were plus how they looked (sorry) in their tiny pixelated profile photos) and which mags were competitive.

I was putting together the pieces. I could keep working on the novel I deeply cared about, but that path was slow, long, and very private. Or I could turn my attention toward short stories and get a couple publications.

Most of my friends didn’t even know I was working on a novel, or if they did, they didn’t know whether I was any good. I got it in my head that I had to prove to them that I was a real writer or else they wouldn’t take me seriously.

So for the next three years, I wrote short stories. To this day, I still really care about them, and I’m grateful I maintained my style, voice, and thematic obsessions rather than just pandering to what I thought mags wanted. But short fiction has never been my passion. It’s not what I like to read, so why was I spending so much time writing it?

If you’re keeping tabs: yep, that unfinished novel manuscript, my passion project, was still languishing on my desktop. I was getting to it occasionally. But now it was 2023 and I still had no regular writing practice. I didn’t have writing goals—it was more like, I’d get to it when I get to it. I worked on the novel in between writing short fiction, revising short fiction, submitting short fiction, stalking randoms on twitter, making gods out of writers with 600 followers/bad haircuts, counting the likes I got on instagram posts about my writing, daydreaming about how fucking cool everyone must think I am, daydreaming about validation from older men with “good taste,” and daydreaming about the day I get a book deal (for the book I was barely writing).

And while I was doing this, Peter, my partner, was writing too. They started a novel manuscript in 2020 and finished revisions in 2021. I pulled them into the lit mag game, tried to seduce them with the potential for validation and recognition. They pubbed a few times. Then they got back to work on a second novel, one that felt more right than the first. They cleaned it up with revisions by May 2024. Started querying the novel to literary agents in August 2024.

Now, this week, they are saying yes to an offer of representation.

At the time of this writing, we’ve only told a few friends. But when I post about it on social media later this week, I imagine some people might be surprised. Some people might be like, “Wait, Peter wrote a novel? Peter got an agent?” and they will be confused because I am the one constantly posting about writing: pics of my open laptop, links to my Substack, screenshots of my pubbed short fiction.

But the truth is that while one of us was projecting “writing a novel,” the other was actually writing a novel.

I say this with love and compassion for myself. It’s normal to want the validation of lit mags! And there are one million essays on how authors need to “build a platform” so why wouldn’t I start a Substack, why wouldn’t I post about writing? The intent of this piece is not to shit-talk myself or you, if you see yourself in anything I’m saying. It’s just to convey my lightbulb moment.

Peter has an undergraduate writing background like I do, but they don’t have an MFA. They don’t have publications from top-tier lit mags, they don’t have connections, and they do not have a platform (Peter has an instagram account with like 80 followers and rarely posts, yet is a veeeery generous liker if you wanna smash that follow).

But they did the work. They started writing the second novel manuscript right when getting a big promotion (and more responsibilities) at their job. They set a word count goal, woke up early, and squeezed the writing in. Sometimes we’d be in bed and as I was about to fall asleep, I’d see them in their notes app, writing. They revised the shit out of the draft. They made it as perfect as they could.

They didn’t get caught up in looking like a writer. They just wrote.

I am starting to think of it like exercise. I’m not an active person (though this is a story I’m trying to rewrite about myself bc maybe I can be one!). I say I don’t have time for exercise. But at the end of the day, regular exercise would take up…three to five hours of my week. I definitely have that time. The problem is that I am unmotivated to exercise, because I want the outcome (ie bangin bod) but have zero interest in the process (ie actually working out).

I think a lot of people want the outcome of writing—to be a writer—but are not committed to the process—actually writing.

In November 2023, I ditched my first novel manuscript and converted an unfinished short story into the beginning a new novel. I wrote a few thousand words. On January 1, 2024, I set a goal to write at least 200 words a day. I didn’t do it perfectly. Some days grief or work prevented me from writing anything, but most days I wrote way more than 200 words. Just having that small, daily goal was so helpful in actually getting me to the page. And the more that I made writing a daily habit, the more I showed up to the work, physically and emotionally. The process of writing became a part of my everyday life, one that I usually really enjoyed.

This year, I started dear diary and I kept posting about writing, but I didn’t distract myself with writing short fiction for the sake of validation. Now, I’m committed to the long game. Working on this novel is hard. I’m in the midst of writing the final scene and it feels genuinely grueling, like I am overcome with fear and resistance and a desire to just quit.

But I’m going to finish this draft. And I’m going to be tempted to rush through revisions so I can query and get an agent too, but I’m not going to rush. I am so genuinely thrilled about Peter’s success (I wondered if I might feel jealous? Which I think would be normal? But I am truly just so excited and proud <3). It gave me the gift of clarity.

I want to be a novelist, but I can’t just want it. I have to do it. Wanting it too badly can actually just be a distraction from the work itself. I’m grateful for my short fiction publications, for dear diary, and for the friends I’ve made along the way. But like, that’s not the thing for me, and I’m done spending my creative energy on pursuits that are primarily just covert attempts at legitimizing myself in the eyes of other people.

Next year will be less about drafting and more about revising. I’m going to sink into the process. I’m gonna trim the “wanting” fat and bulk up the “doing.”

And after that, whatever happens, happens.

---

Update 5/13/25: Thank you so so much for reading—I’m really grateful this resonated with so many of you <3 I wrote a follow up post you might like, about how I’ve successfully shifted from “wanting” to “doing,” buttttt learned it doesn’t stop there. Now I have to examine how I show up for the work:

---

+ Writing: Novel manuscript word count is 81,217. I’m dying. But I’m also in love.

+ Huge congrats to my partner, Peter, for their major accomplishment!! You can find Peter’s work here and here and here. I feel stupidly lucky to be married to someone so smart, generous, and good, whose writing I admire and who makes me a better writer, too. Excited to see what comes next!!