A Novel Journey: The Unwritten Story That Found Me

It began like all the others — with a short story. I had a drawer full of them: a few pages here, a scene there. Little vignettes, like windows cracked open to my subconscious, offering brief glimpses into half-formed worlds.

But this one was different. While the others rested quietly in their drawer — content to remain fragments of possibility — this one refused containment. Its characters whispered to me when I least expected — during walks, in the shower, just before sleep — hinting at histories I hadn’t written but somehow already knew. The world stretched past the page, bleeding into my life, unfolding scenes and conflicts too vast for a few thousand words to contain.

A single thread began to weave itself into something intricate and unruly. Each morning brought fresh connections, unresolved questions, characters who demanded to be known. Each morning I'd wake to find new connections forming, new questions demanding answers. What should have been a week-long affair stretched into months. The story transformed before my eyes — no longer a short piece, but something vast and breathing. My first novel.

I hadn’t planned for this journey. I wasn’t prepared for how it would consume me — how it would upend my assumptions, test my discipline, and quietly redefine who I was as a writer.

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This piece is the first installment in A Novel Journey, a series chronicling my experience writing my first novel — the unexpected challenges, small breakthroughs, and all the moments in between. If you’ve ever tried to wrestle a story into being, I hope these reflections resonate with you.

Next up: My characters teach me a life lesson in empathy.