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.

***
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.

The Tyranny of the Delete Key

The process of writing, or any creative pursuit, is as varied as the human experience itself, with an infinite number of paths from a blank page to a finished piece. An unexpected truth I’ve uncovered through the evolution of my process is that the path to better writing leads through deliberate inefficiency.

This realization came from an unlikely source: joining a letter exchange group. As I began exchanging handwritten letters with members from around the world, I noticed an interesting trend – my letters possessed a clarity of thought that eluded the rest of my writing. What began as a curious affectation became a valuable lesson in writing.

I now begin every first draft on paper using a fountain pen or typewriter. Only until I begin editing do I digitize my work. Ironically, adding a specific amount of friction to the writing experience improves my output. Internalizing the idea that you can’t easily modify what you’ve written prompts deeper consideration before writing. This mental “pre-writing” results in more deliberate sentence construction and a stronger logical link between sentences. After all, clear writing only results from clear thinking.

It turns out I had been solving the wrong problem. The efficiency in writing isn’t the speed, it’s the quality of thought. Removing the safety net of the delete key forces more profound thought and, ultimately, more effective communication through fewer drafts.

Finding Beauty in a Descending Line

Bach’s descending bass line gives life to a masterpiece.

One of the few perks of getting older is gaining a measure of perspective on life by recognizing patterns over time. There is a tide to existence that ebbs and flows—a cyclical order in an otherwise random world. When life’s tide pulls back, when what once felt sure and steady fades—leaving behind scattered debris and jagged rocks—it’s easy to believe that the tide won’t return, that progress is lost to the gravitational pull of a dark mass. Despite my successes, this year felt like an accumulation of challenges and setbacks leading to an uncertain future.

I am comforted by the wonders only visible during these times—hidden terrain we never see when the waters are high, and just as the waves grind rocks into sand, I find myself stopping to appreciate the feeling of resilience that keeps me moving through life’s rhythm. I find comfort in classical music, which speaks something profound about the human experience. Notes fall like drops of rain, managing to soothe despite their descent. As I listen, I realize that these notes don’t fall into despair; they gracefully descend as if to tell their own story of resilience. Their decay is inevitable—each note must give way for the splendor to come.

Life isn’t a quest to a destination but an exploration of the unknown. Sometimes you find treasure, sometimes you find wonder in the mundane, and sometimes you must simply endure the journey with the curiosity of what you’ll discover next. Keep your eyes, mind, and heart open.