The Glory in a First Try

My Origin Story

“I didn’t know I wanted to be an author until my third year of college.”

That’s what I used to tell people. It’s what I would say before I looked back at my past and really thought about where I excelled and gravitated when I wasn’t trying to think about “my future.” It’s not a dishonest statement. It’s true that I wasn’t locked into the writing field until my Junior year. I wasn’t one of those kids that knew they wanted to be a novelist from the moment they wrote their first sentence, but what I did know was that I liked writing stories. My favorite time in school was writing time, where I got to write and share what I wrote with the class. I loved reading, though I wouldn’t admit it until fourth grade, after I picked up Brandon Mull’s five book series Fablehaven and read them cover-to-cover in a matter of days. Until then I would hide my books under my desk while the teacher was speaking, and only read at school, when boredom induced it.

Years passed and, after that first encounter with Fablehaven, my love for reading only grew, but being a novelist didn’t cross my mind. I wanted a “stable” career. Maybe something in the sciences or engineering where I could be sure of a steady income. Cue my first three years of a computer science degree.

I hated it.

To all the people out there who love computer science, I commend you. I was bored and frustrated at the same time. I didn’t feel smart, or like I had anything of interest or importance to contribute to the field. I suspected that if I continued on, I would end up in a coding job I hated, taking coffee breaks I didn’t need and withering away along with any intelligence I might have had. I’m not sure what my professors thought of me, maybe they saw more potential than I did. I saw other kids coding games in their free time, getting A’s with ease (which I clawed my way to) and generally having a deep interest in the subject. I realized it wasn’t my love. I didn’t want to code in my spare time, I barely wanted to go to class. So, I finally ran into the brick wall question that every college kid seems to hit: what do I actually want?

Before I decided to pursue a computer science degree, before I even knew for sure if I would get into college, the COVID-19 pandemic hit. I was a senior in high school with nothing to do, and a whole lot of time and anger over what was happening. I needed an outlet, and the only one I could think of was a book! The idea came fast, like a bolt of lightning, like something I always sort of knew I should do but had suppressed as much as possible.

I wrote my first full draft in a year. I cranked out chapter after chapter and worked countless hours editing and refining it.

It was a horrible book.

I don’t say that self-deprecatingly, but with a genuine love for the project that started it all for me. I wouldn’t change a thing about it.

It was still a horrible book.

But, that doesn’t mean my experience writing it was a loss. Quite the contrary. I think there’s so much to be learned from the horrible books we write, the horrible (yet zealous) attempts we make. That’s why, in the post, I’m hoping to explain a little bit of what I learned while writing my first, terrible, horrible, book!

Why Are You Writing Your Book?

When I started writing my first book (now shelved, but then titled The Oil and the Mist) I didn’t know anything about writing. All I knew was that I needed something that would help me process all I was going through. I was angry, and stressed, and hurt, and unsure how to let it all go. I wasn’t yet a Christian, so I didn’t even have a prayer outlet. I just had myself, and my own confused, young mind. Eventually, I just started writing it all down because I couldn’t take it anymore. And with that, something amazing happened.

I fell naturally into writing allegorically toward what was bothering me, I developed the story and characters, thought about plot points, and character arc, and how to write really cool action scenes, how to make my characters dynamic and interesting. I delved deep, researching all those terms and more, thinking about theory behind why authors chose certain themes and motifs. And, eventually…I realized what a joy it was! I was laughing, and smiling, yet challenged, and I was excited about the story I was developing. I saw meaning in every sentence, and genuinely cared that the work I was creating was the best work I could manage (in my youth and inexperience). I found happiness and peace in something, and that meant more to me than anything the book itself had to offer.

This leads me to my first point. Why are you writing your book?

I’m not saying that writing will be (or should be) joyous all the time. It’s not. It’s work. Very, very hard work. But, a lot of people write because they think it will get them fame and acclaim, and I’m here to tell you that it just won’t work. There are some authors who make it big, but a lot of us don’t. We write because it takes more energy to keep our stories inside than out. We write because we want the challenge of seeing our hearts on the page. We write because it is a genuine joy.

So, I would say, before you write your book, even if it’s not your first book, ask if it will be a joy for you. Because something I learned is if you get wrapped up in things that don’t matter it can be a very draining experience.

The Query Letter Conundrum

Speaking of draining experiences, after I finished a draft of my horrible book. I decided it was time to try getting an agent. I had big delusions of grandeur, thinking that I could be the next Christopher Paolini (author of the Inheritance Cycle). I wanted to be agented, I wanted to make tons of money, I wanted to have a book deal, I wanted to go on tours around the country and read my book out to adoring crowds (I could see the cameras flashing).

At the time I’d been listening to YouTube videos as I climbed up and down the staircase in my house (again it was the pandemic). These videos taught me lots of things (both good and not-so-good) about how to edit a book, how to write well, how to cut the excess words from sentences. I listened to anything that I thought might make my book more marketable. And it was then that I stumbled upon the Query Letter Conundrum. I knew I would need one, but how could I write it? How could I possibly shrink down my horrible book into a bite sized piece that would make an agent want to read the first sentence, then the second, then the third?

Because I was scared, I started with research. I thought that if I buried my head into tracking down agents, I could wait a while before writing a query letter. But, the problem with researching agents is that once you find someone you think would be a good fit, you want to send them something immediately. At least, that’s been my experience.

So, I found agents, and realized I had nothing to send them. I had my manuscript of course, but nothing that would make them want to read it. Nothing that would distinguish it from everything else in the slush pile. I spent time summarizing my work, trying to get it to fit into the impossible box of a few hundred words, and I worried myself to tears over whether or not I used the word “that” too many times. I spent time reading other people’s query letters, thinking about comparable titles in my genre and even considering where my book would fit into the current market. All of these are things you should absolutely do when crafting a query letter, and I would venture to add that you should always have multiple eyes on it as well (a luxury that I unfortunately didn’t have when I wrote mine). But what happens if even after all the research and all the strategizing, and all the dreaming…you still don’t get an agent?

My horrible book meant everything to me at the time, and getting no after no after no was so difficult. A lot of people will tell you that you shouldn’t give up. This is true. But it’s only true If you believe in your work, trust that it’s good, and know that your work has a place in the field. Sometimes a book needs to be shared, sometimes it has what it takes, but sometimes it was just a first try. If the former is the case, query until you find the right person (Madeline L’Engle—an overall amazing writer and author of A Wrinkle in Time—had over fifty rejections before someone took on her work). However, something that I don’t think is said enough in the case of the latter is that it’s also okay to shelve a work. It’s hard, and I won’t lie you’ll feel like you’re crushing something in your soul. But it frees you up to think about all you’ve learned, consider where you are and where you want to go, and try again with something fresh and new. Something for which you have the energy to keep going.

You don’t have to say goodbye to that story forever, but sometimes getting no after no after no can be so draining that we lose our love for the piece anyway. I don’t say this to be discouraging, nor do I say it lightly, but I want to give you permission to set yourself free if you need to (as I needed to) in order to grow as a writer.

Sometimes our first efforts are valuable because they are first, not because they are the best we can do, and I learned that very well with my first novel.

Writing as a Design Process

Two of my very dear friends (who are not at all associated with the writing field) have told me that they don’t want me to look at their writing because they are worried I’d look at it from a literary stand-point. At the time I just nodded and said something like “you know, that’s fair,” or “yeah, I get it.” But now that I’ve had some time to think, I’ve started to see the hidden importance in their words. Let me explain.

Neither of them write for a living, or want to write for a living, or have a career path that would bring them anywhere close to writing for a living. But both of them LOVE to write. One of them wrote a 180,000 word novel in her free time. The other did much of the same. Why? I wondered. Why would they write, and not want to do something with it? As someone who loves writing, but also sees it as a career and so desperately wants to share the stories she creates, I couldn’t imagine wasting something that takes so much energy.

But what if it wasn’t a waste? What if it was just as valuable in their small circles, or even just in their own development of it, as it would be out in the world? I mentioned earlier that my first book started out as an outlet because I couldn’t let my festering feelings sit inside me. What if I hadn’t taken it past the step of getting it on the page? I chose to edit it, I chose to query it, I chose to send it out into the world, and I chose to make it more of a professional project than it needed to be. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very glad I did, and I’m not trying to say that people shouldn’t publish what they write. It’s a wonderful thing, and people’s stories should be shared, but what if writing could be valued as something more than that?

I think my desire to publish my writing stems from my innate desire to share stories. But what I’m starting to realize is that not everyone has this. Some people (like my friends) like to create stories and not share them. It’s not out of selfishness, or greed. They aren’t harboring those stories for themselves because they don’t value others. They are keeping them to themselves because those stories have unique meaning and comfort to them alone. Does this mean those stories don’t have value?

The novel I started during the pandemic still has so much sentimental value to me, because it got me through a hard time, and led me to my chosen career path. Just because it wasn’t published doesn’t mean it’s not valuable. In fact, I consider it a vital part of my design process for the book I’m currently working on.

When I had a graphic design internship, my mentor said something that sticks with me to this day. We were working on designing a logo and I had an idea that I was really pushing for, and that I didn’t want to lose, but for the greater good of the company, we had to trash it. In light of this he said, “just because the design you liked isn’t the final design, it doesn’t mean it wasn’t useful. It was a part of the design process, which means that it’s a necessary and powerful part of the logo we’ve built.” Those weren’t his exact words, but what he taught me is that anything I write that isn’t “successful” by industry standards, still helped to get me to where I am, and should be treated with love and care because ultimately it was a final piece of the puzzle. I wouldn’t be where I am without The Oil and the Mist. I learned so much about the industry and myself as a writer, and I think it’s important to recognize what our “unsuccessful works” do for us as people and creators.

Conclusion

So, all of this to say, I wrote my first beautiful, lovely, amazing, wonderous, imaginative, HORRIBLE book as an eighteen-year-old, recent high-school graduate, with zero writing experience, during the biggest medical pandemic the modern world has ever seen. And it was, again, horrible. But, it was a first try, and while that first try didn’t lead to a publication or a career-jumping, world-shaking, heart-hammering shift in my life. It did provide healing, it did provide the outlet I needed, and it did illuminate my love for writing.

So, if you’re nervous to start your first novel, or project, or collection, OR even more so if you’re nervous to let it go…what’s holding you back? The worst that can happen is you’ll learn something new.

Thanks for reading and as always, happy writing!