How I Wrote a Book

Last June, two days after the hardest year of my ten-year teaching career – a year that tore my emotions to shreds and made me forget the feeling of joy – I started writing a book. 

The protagonists had been hanging out in my mind for over a month by that point. I don’t mean that I had been brainstorming characters with the intention to write a novel. On the contrary, despite no current plans to write anything at all, these characters just showed up one day in my brain. Over the course of several weeks, their lives unfolded in my imagination as I washed dishes or drove to work. In essence, I was daydreaming about people who didn’t exist. It sounds a bit crazy to admit aloud, but in chatting with other writers I’ve recently met, it seems to be a common experience.

Although I have had a deep desire to become an author since elementary school, it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that the random characters who showed up in my daydreams were meant to be the protagonists of a book.

It occurred to me finally, as a fleeting thought, that perhaps I could write a story from these people who had hi-jacked my imagination. Lying in bed one night in late June, without much difficulty, I typed out a first chapter into the Notes app on my phone. As I pecked out the words, there was a sensation of maybe dancing around in my stomach. Maybe I can write a book. 

Years ago on a podcast, I heard an interview with Anna Todd, author of the After series (which has now been turned into four and soon-to-be five movies). She had discussed getting her start as an author on an online writing platform where she published her chapters as she wrote them, receiving reader feedback in real time. Intrigued, I had been meaning to check out the website for at least six or seven years. From time to time, I would jot down a poem into my journal. Now and again, that podcast interview would flash into my mind. Oh yeah, someday I will have to check out that platform. Someday.

The day after writing my first chapter, I downloaded the reading/writing app onto my phone. It felt like a good omen when I was able to install the app and create an account on my own in less than five minutes. That night I typed another chapter. In chapter one, I was afraid of dialogue and didn’t include any. I’d never written dialogue before. I tried some out in the second chapter, and it didn’t seem so hard. 

From that point on, it all cascaded out of me uncontrollably like a frothy, sparkling waterfall. I’d write until 3:00am, free and unfiltered. I don’t remember half of what I wrote; I read it back now as if it’s the first time I’m seeing it. Sometimes I’m impressed by beautiful metaphors, while other parts make me cringe in horror. Did I write that?

Somewhere between six and ten chapters in, the vague feeling of maybe morphed into a knowing. I knew, beyond certainty, that I would finish this book. 

I had attempted to write before. Since the fourth grade, I knew I wanted to be an author. Throughout high school and college, I would receive high praise from teachers on essays and papers. In my twenties, I occasionally scribbled down a mediocre poem or short story. The idea of writing a book, however, always seemed daunting and unattainable. Planning a cohesive plot, developing realistic characters, crafting interesting conflict, writing unique descriptions, selecting the perfect vocabulary words, piecing it all together… Who could possibly do all that?

The point of view in my book is all screwed up, but I did this on purpose. Audaciously, I had the nerve to experiment and bend the rules of narration in my first attempt at even getting a story down on paper. I decided to switch the protagonists’ POV back and forth throughout each chapter; I wanted to feel the two characters’ thoughts braided together, their emotions interwoven as their love is. 

For some readers, my experiment failed. It turns out that what I did is called “head-hopping,” a term I learned only after the fact from a follower online who pointed out the jarring nature of my narration style. A few readers immediately critique the point of view issue when they read the first chapters, while others are completely unbothered. Some specifically tell me they love the way we get to see both characters’ emotions blended together; one person called the narration “different and refreshing.” 

Since I’ve read many of my readers’ own writing through the platform, I know that there are tremendously talented writers who love my narration style and tremendously talented writers who find it problematic. Which speaks to the diversity and variety of the human experience, the myriad ways we perceive things. It’s a reminder that art is subjective.

There are many other literary techniques, as well as errors, that I’ve learned about only after implementing them in my book. A professional author who now writes for fun commented on one passage: “This backstory is fascinating. I’m not even mad about this long expository birdwalk.” Expository birdwalk? This is the same reader who relentlessly complained about my “head-hopping” issue and gave me some guidance on writing in the third person POV. Ask me now about third person limited versus third person omniscient, and I’m still not entirely clear on the difference. I know shockingly little about writing, to be honest. 

Someone commented on another writer’s book I was reading recently: “Do you use a beat sheet when you outline? This chapter is totally the ‘high towers surprise’ that messes everything up…” A beat sheet? I thought. What the hell is that?

I wrote my entire novel with no plan in mind – no plot outline, no character notes, really no idea of what I wanted to accomplish through the story. Turns out that’s called being a “pantser” – another term I had no idea existed. “Pantser,” as in, flying by the seat of your pants (as opposed to a “planner”). 

Fingers dancing across the keyboard into the wee hours of the night, the story unfolded before my eyes, out of my control. My only “planning” consisted of idle daydreaming as I pushed my kids on the swings at the park or chopped veggies in the evening. Sometimes I would remember what my imagination concocted during the day, and it would end up in my chapters that night; other times, the characters would think of something else to say or do that I wasn’t expecting. I wrote in a state of stream-of-consciousness, which felt something more like “unconsciousness.” Most of what I published online was what originally poured onto the page, without much revision. Without second-guessing or overanalyzing. It helped that I never imagined anyone would read my novel; I didn’t consider that part much at all.

Looking back now, there had to be some magical force (whatever that means) guiding me – the way I vomited the thing out night after night. It must be what Elizabeth Gilbert describes in Big Magic, a book I actually remember nothing about other than that it blew my mind when I read it. I guess it’s the idea of “flow.” It’s like the “art” part of teaching, as opposed to the science part – the way a lesson can magically come to life, everything falling into place like a perfectly improvised Jazz solo.

My online writer-friend, who has read both of my books, kept commenting that she loved the way I describe my characters’ voices. “I think that’s your special thing,” she remarked at one point. A special talent for selecting words and piecing together pretty phrases to describe the way an imaginary person utters imaginary words – that seems both unimportant and… quite lovely at the same time. Because it comes down to being able to move another person, to invoke a feeling in them. And that’s pretty cool. 

My favorite bit of feedback came from a small contest I entered and, shockingly, won first place for the General Fiction category. The judge’s review said: “It was almost as if the author knew the characters on a personal level.” Embarrassingly, I do. They aren’t real, but I do know them on a personal level.

My dear friend Anne wrote me a beautiful card the other day congratulating me on my books. She said that writing is “a symbiotic relationship where all parties win.” This is true metaphorically, with physical paper books. In an online writing platform, it is quite literally true. Readers let me know in real time exactly which parts resonated, which phrases stirred their soul. A heart emoji, wink, or crying-with-laughter face (as Siri calls it) gives me an insight into how a person felt the moment the words on the page flashed across their eyes. Sometimes my favorite parts are their favorite parts. Other times, a paragraph that made me cringe and wrinkle my nose reading it back earns a three-paragraph reflection from a reader, and I’m relieved I resisted the urge to click “delete” and obliterate that scene from existence. 

My sequel, unlike the first book, was written with much more intentionality. I think the quality of writing is “better,” more technically sound. I separated the points of view, checked my timeline of events and more carefully selected the plot twists. In the end, however, I don’t think the two books differ that much. My strength is still in characterization and the chemistry I created between my protagonists. I still forgot to do half of the critical things a writer should do in a book – basics such as describing the setting. Both the original and sequel are gloriously full of clichés, but I’m alright with that for a first attempt. In the end, people are still enjoying my stories despite the many, many flaws; I’ve even won a few competitions. 

Now, I’m obsessively reading everything I can from my online writer-friends. I love their perfectly imperfect stories. I cherish the flaws, because there’s something so touching about all of us being there together on the same creative “cloud,” using our talents and striving to invent something beautiful. Despite the imperfections, the grammar errors, the errant pacing, and a few clichés here and there, our stories have the ability to draw a person in, to inspire a reader to keep scrolling down the page, to cause someone else’s stomach to flip-flop with a human emotion. 

One of my readers even gave my protagonist his own hashtag. As silly as it sounds, I can’t really describe how good that feels.

Whatever may happen in the future, I never want to forget this moment now. Writing, because I can and want to. 

My friends ask me if I plan to publish my books. I have literally no plans right now, no specific ambitions. It would be a dream-come-true to have a published book, someday. But I refuse to put that pressure on myself at this stage in my life. With my kiddos finally sleeping on their own through the night, and having found a way to manage my workload as a teacher, I’ve found a tiny sliver of opportunity to pursue writing. That’s all it is – a sliver. It’s all I’ve got, and I’m trying to cherish it. Not overstretch it. I refuse to demand more of myself than I can give. I will not crush my own joy with unrealistic expectations. There is time for next steps later.

I have been pondering how this all happened. How I wrote two books in a matter of six months. It feels inaccurate to say that I finally chased after my dreams. On the contrary, it’s like the dream burst out unexpectedly from inside me. Friends have praised my drive and determination, but honestly, that’s not what this was. 

At the same time, I can recognize the ways in which I have been keeping my dream of writing a book alive in the back of my head, over the years, through the “one percent” concept. One percent is the idea that no matter how busy, tired or overstretched we are, we can work towards our goals in tiny ways that add up over time. For me, it was writing a poem now and then when one came to mind. It was holding space – however miniscule – in the back of my brain for the possibility of someday and maybe. It was starting a blog even though I was too busy to do so, and giving myself the grace to write as much or as little as reality allowed. My one percent included always holding my writing talent in high regard, even when I wasn’t using it. 

In another sense, I believe the reason I was finally able to start writing is because I allowed myself to “give up” on my dream. Several years ago, I came to terms with the fact that I would likely never write a book. I had no ideas for what to write and no idea of how to write one. I made peace with this fact. This sensation of peace, I believe, allowed my novel to bloom in the exact moment it was meant to. 

My “one percent” preserved a fertile space for possibility; I never lost the confidence in myself that I can write. While my acceptance of the idea that I might live my whole life without ever becoming an author – and making peace with this – allowed me to write from a place of joy, rather than anxiety. 

I relished the process, and I refused to preoccupy myself with how anyone else might receive my story or what I meant to “accomplish” with it. In writing and sharing my first books with strangers online, I’m re-learning Lesson #1. My writing doesn’t have to be perfect for it to engage people. For me to enjoy it. For it to be worth it. Just like teaching, playing the piano, parenting, being human.

Obviously, not every pursuit can be achieved through lucky timing, daydreaming and “big magic.” I’m quite certain there are some big dips in the road ahead in my journey as a writer. But for now, I’m gonna float in the magic.