The universe doesn't want a novel

There's something far more important for you to be doing with your time

If you’re reading this, you want to write a novel. Probably a very specific novel, one you’ve worked on for years and poured yourself into. But let’s be clear about something.

God doesn’t want a novel.

Or if you don’t believe in God: the Universe doesn’t want a novel.

Neither does your heart, to be honest. If that were the case, you’d be fine with anyone writing the novel so long as it got written. No; your heart wants you to be the one who wrote it.

Why? For the bragging rights, sure. For the lifestyle, too. For the accolades, the money, the esteem.

But also because you want to see if you’re capable of it. Your heart wants the challenge.

And to express the things you’ve been longing to say. Your heart wants to speak.

And to get to know your own characters and your world. Your heart wants connection.

And to carry the torch like all the writers who have gone before. Your heart wants to contribute.

And to right the wrongs in the world. Your heart wants to matter.

All of these desires point to something that’s vitally important. The real truth. The thing that God, the Universe, and your heart really want.

What do they want?

A novelist.

The person who has overcome challenges. The person who has learned to express those things too deep for words. The person who connects, who gives back, who matters.

Maybe I’m only saying this to make myself feel better. After 4 arduous years of working on the same story, this month I finally finished my newest outline and started writing the book. And I wrote a few chapters. It was a moment of glory. But it didn’t work. I realized I have to go back, rip it all apart, and start at the very beginning one more time.

I believe that writing is what I’m meant to do. So why can’t I succeed? If my heart, my soul, my universe all tell me that this is the path, why can’t I seem to make it more than a few steps before I have to fall back?

Because the novel is immaterial. A lifelong writer might create hundreds of them. Another writer might spend their whole existence perfecting one story until it shakes the world. In both cases, it’s not the books that mattered but the lives behind them, the trajectory, the flight. Or, in my case, the bloody crawl. That’s what comes through the pages, what really reaches us.

I’m digging back in. I refuse to give up. I should count the number of words I’ve written just working on this one book. It’s got to be almost novel-length by itself. But apparently I’m not the person I need to be to write this story.

And how do I become that person?

I go back to the mountain and start climbing.

We don’t need my novel. We don’t need your novel, either.

We need me and you.

Grab my hand and let’s climb.