Writing a book is an improbable miracle

Since November 2019 I have been writing a book. The idea for the story had come to me two years earlier, but only when I found myself stranded by my own green card process I was able to sit down and try to make the book a reality. Update to the base: it’s been hard.

But here is the thing about writing a novel: It is hard. It is hard because no one is supervising your lack of writing, it is hard because there is no one you can talk to about your own book without seeming often incoherent or boring or self-centered (let’s talk about my passion project for three hours straight). It’s hard because you don’t know how many words a day are an acceptable rate. It’s hard because you are sure there is something missing in that scene but you just don’t know what. It’s hard because… maybe you are not “special” enough to write a book.

If I could ask God for anything, I would ask him to give me the strengh to finish my novel. If it was me and him alone and no one was listening (I know that’s how prayer works) I would ask him to help me finish this thing - world peace, humanity, Earth’s envoironmental recovery be damned.

It is really selfish, I know. I am not proud. At the same time: I want to be proud. I think I have a good story and I desperately want to feel like I brought something to humanity’s conversation about, well, in the case of my novel: love, punishment, guilt and capitalism (among other things).

Attempting to write this novel has been the most ambitious thing I have ever done (so far) and I really don’t want to fail. I have seen The Shining, I know what mediocre writers can do.

Thinking that you can write a novel, like, a good novel, is a completely irrational thing. The characters have to be coherent and interesting and their relationship needs to be real. Their internal conflicts should be related to the plot. The plot should be convincing, entertaining and cohesive.I need to write about 250 pages (which is the lengh of this project), I only have 60 and so often I go days without writing a word. Maybe I am spending the precious time I have on Earth with a pipe dream that will never become a reality. Maybe I will die without having finished one single authorial project and people will remember me as “That weird girl who really thought she could be a writer”.

I wish I could do something else. I wish sometimes that I wasn’t, like so many, the “creative” type. But I am. I have stories in my head and all I have done with my money and time has been to consume, research, study and try to make story. It can go horribly wrong, or maybe, just maybe, it won’t be so bad. We will see.

I’ll let you know what happens.