How to keep believing in a big creative project

EVEN WHEN IT'S REALLY EFFING HARD

I made a breakthrough with my second novel this week. I write this with great trepidation in case I’ve jinxed it, but in the spirit of keeping the faith, I’ll say it again. I made a breakthrough with my second novel this week.

I’ve been working on this book for the best part of three years and I’ve never yet gone much above 30,000 words (ie. about half a short novel or a third of a longish one). You may be aware that the Difficult Second Novel is, like the Difficult Second Album, a thing. At many points I’ve thought it was taking far too long, questioned whether it was really the right project, imagined abandoning it in favour of another idea. I’ve wondered if the stumbling blocks were natural parts of the process or symptoms of deeper flaws, signs that my first novel was a fluke and that I won’t be able to write another one for many years to come.

Part of my discomfort comes from that fact that big chunks of my writing process have, so far, been rewriting. I write a bit, and then I rework it, and with each reworking I go a little bit deeper into the characters’ minds, a little bit further into their story. I need to go back in order to go forward — but it can be hard, when I’m going back for the umpteenth time, to see how this constitutes progress. At some point, I’d really like to just go forward. I’m always hoping for the moment when I find some missing piece and the rest of the novel just… pours out.

I thought I’d got to that place recently, and when the time came for me to share my work with my writing group, I was excited for them to say, ‘Congratulations, this is working perfectly! All you need to do is to carry on!’

Well. They did not say this. They said lots of helpful, encouraging things, but they also pointed out various problems, some of which had been created by my attempts to fix the problems they pointed out last time, and I had to face up to the fact that my latest rewrite might, yet again, need rewriting. This was such an unappealing prospect that I didn’t really want to look at my novel again for a while, and two weeks went by without me opening the notes they’d made on the manuscript.

But when I did eventually open them, some unexpected things happened. First, it seemed strikingly clear that the problems they’d pointed out were all symptoms of the fact I’d indiscriminately dumped all my best ideas onto the page far too early, like putting a big dollop of jam on a slice of bread — and that I could probably solve all of them if I spread the jam out a bit instead of scraping the jar for more.

Second, there’d been the glimmer of an idea mooted during our discussion that felt like a little door, opening just a crack, with sunlight seeping in round the edge. I pushed on it, and winter turned to spring. As I thought about the idea I started to see this one particular aspect of the story in a completely new way, and from a dried out, half-dead old vine, it began to transform into vibrant green one, sprouting new shoots and knitting things together.

So I got a pen and a notebook and started writing, and out came a plan for the novel. I could see how to fix things; I could see where to take them next. For the first time ever I had an idea for the ending. I felt like I’d found the missing piece — except that hardly anything I wrote down was a new idea. I’d already thought of it all, I just hadn’t known how to fit it together. I’d been blundering about in a maze for years, learning all the walkways and corners; I only needed my brain to make a couple of new connections to realise that I knew the way out.

I’m still scared of jinxing it, so I must state that a messy handwritten novel plan does not a novel make. My first book may yet turn out to have been a fluke. But moments of creative clarity often bring little titbits of wisdom, so here are my most heartfelt words of encouragement and advice — for my future self, when the doubt has descended again, and for anyone grappling with a long-form writing project (and who knows, possibly other types of big creative project, too).

Share your work with people you trust

I’m slightly hesitant about giving this advice because I’m in the fortunate position of having happened upon an amazing writing group entirely by accident, and I know it’s not always easy to find people who fit the bill. There are stringent criteria: they should know something about your craft and understand the struggle inherent in what you’re doing; they should be ready to champion your writing wholeheartedly when it’s working and prepared to tell you honestly when it isn’t. But if you’re trying to write and you don’t have people like this in your life, my number one tip is to keep searching until you find them.

The best way, in my opinion, is for everyone share their work with each other, because that way it’s a level playing field. You give your time and energy to their work, knowing you’ll get the same in return. Everyone is equally vulnerable, which makes for sensitive, thoughtful, creatively attuned discussions. I trust my writing group to be honest about my work because I’m honest about theirs, so when they say it’s good, I believe them. That reassurance can be a lifeline when you’re in the mire. And sometimes, magic happens: a discussion helps you get something unstuck, or someone says something offhand that turns out to be a crucial turning point in the genesis of the story.

Value the process, not the product

In these days of immediate gratification it’s easy to start believing that your work counts for nothing if it isn’t out there being shared or liked or paid for — and that if it’s taking a while, you’re just not as good at it as someone who churns things out with apparent ease. We make it all about the product, when the thing that’s actually valuable to your life — the thing that brings you meaning and purpose and genuine gratification — is the process. The part where you’re making the art is what it’s all about, not the part where you have made it. After all, when you’ve finished your work in progress, what will you do? Probably start on something else, so that you can get yourself embroiled in a whole new glorious mess. This is it: you are already doing the thing, and it will take the time it takes.¹

It’s no bad thing to be in the weeds

I googled ‘weeds’ in an effort to elaborate on that metaphor, and Google really delivered:

I’ve been in the weeds for pretty much the entire time I’ve been working on this novel. I didn’t always know it: you aren’t necessarily aware that you’re preparing the ground for a more complex ecosystem, because for now, weeds are the most complex ecosystem you know of. Sometimes it’s only later that you can see them for the tangled thicket they are, and understand that the soil is ready for you to cultivate something more intentional and refined. But you don’t get that kind of perspective without first getting down on the ground and messing around in the dirt. That’s where the conditions for your project are created.

You might not know what you’re writing about until you’ve written it

The novel I’m writing now doesn’t really have much in common with the novel I started writing three years ago. I’ve snipped and snipped, and now barely any of my initial ideas remain. But out of the ashes of those early attempts is arising something that’s recognisable as a product of the things I care about. I didn’t set out to make a story out of them, but they’re coming out anyway, disguised as fiction. Some authors know exactly what they want to write about before they begin, but that isn’t me. It emerges as I go.

Believe in it deeply, but don’t hold it too tightly

If you hold your project too tightly you’ll have trouble letting go of the bits you need to let go of, and it won’t be a good piece of writing if you cling to every idea you’ve ever had and every sentence you’ve ever written. But you also need to believe in those ideas and sentences in the moment of writing them, even knowing they might have to go. If your approach to your work is ‘ah, whatever, I’ll probably cut this anyway’, chances are you aren’t invested enough to write sincerely. You know the term ‘killing your darlings’? I endorse it wholeheartedly, but I also think it’s useful to remember that the killing is not the only important bit. It’s also important that they were your darlings. You need to love them first. And then you need to let them go.

Sending creative courage,

Kx

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1. I’ve seen other takes on this idea popping up here and there in the Substack-verse lately, which is all to the good — see

Grace Pengelly

on reclaiming the ‘dignified silence’ or

Emily Wick

on starting a tapestry diary in a deliberate attempt to slow the creative process down.