What I found in my secret search for a story

3 things I observed while privately writing the first draft of my novel

Adventure, death, and preservation.

For some context: I have written a fantasy novel that currently stands complete at 94k words. In one year, I completed my first draft in secret. I have since undergone 6 rounds of revision, and have beta readers finishing up now. Edits/additions after that should bring this back up to 100k words.

The concept, which is not important to this article, was first dreamt up a decade ago. And when I say concept, I mean a very loose concept. There was a beginning and an end. It was just that bit in the middle—the book—which was missing.

And what did I discover during my search?

1.) Adventure

I’ve been sharing my creative work on the internet for almost a decade now. In that time, I have discovered that I’m very good—much to my dismay—at starting a new series or venture for fun only to quickly lose steam. Something to do with the combination of a hyper-specific focus + “oh gosh, people are watching.”

After a while, I’d find myself thinking, Well, what would happen if I don’t follow through? It’s not that serious. No one is going to die.

Rather, I’d let the project starve to death.

My issue wasn’t a lack of focus, but rather a lack of vision. Even if I knew what direction I was headed, I didn’t know why.

“It’s about the journey,” you could argue. And I’d agree up to a point.

I think of Bilbo leaving the Shire, having no concept of what lay ahead or what he might encounter. If he had known what was to be expected, I dare say he never would have left home at all.

But it wasn’t about the journey. It was about helping the dwarves reclaim their home. It was about unselfishness, and honor, and the belief that what lay at the end was worth every step of the journey itself. It was about the adventure.

So, when I set my mind to writing this book, I didn’t know what it would look like to get there, but I knew at the end of it all, it would be worth it. Turns out, when the vision is clear enough, the focus comes easily

2.) Death

Mind you, before this endeavor, I had never written fiction with any sort of intentionality. I certainly didn’t know how to write a book.

Common sense would say that an outline is probably a wise start… Too bad I disregarded that entirely and just began to write. Scenes, backstory, and abstract dialogue that I knew lived somewhere, even if I couldn’t find the door.

About 3 months in, when I’d written all I knew to write, I finally sat down and outlined.

It was arduous and frustrating to discover my weak and blind spots. I cannot tell you how many darlings I killed. But if it didn’t work, it died. Scenes, lines, backstory, you name it. Though, secretly, I quite enjoyed the process. It meant I was getting somewhere. It meant I understood my vision, and, in turn, it meant this adventure was easily worth the “loss.”

3.) Preservation

I did want to tell people, so you know. This secrecy wasn’t due to embarrassment. Quite the opposite. I wanted desperately to tell anyone, everyone. I wanted strangers in cafés to ask what I was working on. I wanted people to gawk at this endeavor, to gasp and say, “I could never do that!”

I wanted, wretchedly, to feel superior.
And I knew, in every way, that it would destroy every good part of this.

I’d likely have choked on my own pride and drowned before the deed was done.

The thing is, you can say, “I’m writing a book,” all you want. All that really takes is a working title and a blinking cursor on a blank page. How much of a book do you need to write to claim you’re writing one?

I’ve seen many authors joke that they talk about writing their novel more than actually writing it. And I knew this would become my reality if I weren’t careful. The romantic daydream of authorship is far preferable to the action of it.

I craved the ability to tell people I was an author, but I needed to be sure I was telling them the truth.

So you see, I needed to keep it a secret.
Until it was done.
Until I was sure.

The other side of the coin is this: Let’s say you are writing a book and someone asks to see what you’ve done. They’d likely have something to say about it. I know I would if the roles were reversed.

Because of this, I felt very strongly that it would be wise to keep it to myself to preserve the narrative. Not in a narrow-minded way, but in a precious one.

Looking back, I didn’t know where the story would end up until I’d finished it. How then would I have expected anyone else to understand where it was going? And it didn’t seem right to open a door to “public influence,” if you will, when the heart of the story is so grossly personal.

I didn’t write a book for you, no offense. I wrote one for my family.

And if it turns out that someday this story is published and resonates with you, that is remarkable! A cherry on top!

The point is, even if all this was still a secret, it would be worth it.

The adventure is worth it.