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.
I found a doc I wrote several years ago about my writing that made some of these points. I forgot my writer’s slogan:
Have pen, will scribble.
That says it all.
Huh? No other comments here? Weird............ Let me begin by saying that if I wrote this piece it would be a little different, but the essential question you're asking would stay the same. (Why do I do this when it makes no sense in the context of 2023 American life?) I too have always had the (probably romantic) image of myself as a struggling artist, living in a garret, wrestling to give birth to a work of genius. You know of which I speak, right? I did live that archetype for a number of years. I supported myself, just barely, by driving a cab, writing and painting when I could, but ultimately found it necessary to beat a retreat, get a straight job, and eventually have a family. Sellout, right? Ha! Even a happy fate can be cruel. Fast forward to today. When I go into a bookstore, when I open Amazon, when I turn on Netflix, I am struck by the sheer monstrous excess, surplus, surfeit, superabundance of everything. Who reads all these bright new books? When I browse a little, I'm even more puzzled. You said it! The world does not need another book. It does not need another movie or TV show either. We (collectively), even if we were given a hundred years to dedicate ourselves to it, will never catch up to today. So why do I do this writing thing? There is no good answer. The best one might simply be, "from compulsion." I'm obsessed. I have these ideas and I need to write them down before they disappear like smoke. Then I need to organize them and finesse them. Why? For who? Do I think some future archaeologist will discover my work so I should make sure I've crossed my t's and dotted all my i's? Absurd. Do I do this for my friends? I don't know about you but my friends, the ones who read stories anyway, are pretty shallow readers. (They have other charms thankfully). Is it for myself? Now I seem to be getting to the crux of it. Writing seems to be something I need to do for myself. I like that quote from Joan Didion: "I write to find out what I think." That's the approximate paraphrase, but the meaning resonates. If I did not write this stuff I feel like I could never understand myself or the life I've been leading on planet Earth. It's crazy because I spend so much time on this pursuit, time that I should (perhaps) be simply "living." Where does this strange idea originate that it is a good thing to "make something" of your life? What is the worth? What is the value except to yourself? It's a great mystery, and we may very well be acting on self delusion.