How I Wrote My First-Ever Novel

1. Have the idea

This part was easy. I read a book that helped me understand the structure of a fiction novel, and thought it was definitely something I could attempt. There was this particular scene that I always wanted to include in a story and decided to build a narrative around it, asking myself: Who are these people? Why are they here? What led them to this? Hours of research followed.

2. Spiral

Soon the reality of my choice hit me like a tonne of bricks. I thought why on earth did I think this was something I was capable of doing? Who the hell did I think I was? What if my book sucks? Tens of thousands of words aren’t very easy to keep track of, and at that point I’d been rotting my brain so much with useless social media doomscrolling that I figured my cranium had turned to a type of mush that could never again produce a poignant piece of prose.

3. Attempt your first draft

Once I got over myself, I buckled up for the wildest ride of my life. Truly, I keep telling people that had I known what writing a full-length novel would be like, I may never have started. My first draft consumed me. The story, the climax and the ending were so clear in my mind. I could picture my protagonist’s face and think in his voice. I was excited to wake up each day to write, plot, think and edit.

4. Burnout

This was honestly all my own fault. I wrote 108 000 words in 75 days and I didn’t notice, at first, what a toll it was taking on me. I just wanted to get it done and out of my brain. I kept imagining how good I would feel when I finally typed ‘the end’. It was maddening. It sucked all it could out of me, until I was but a shell of a thing. I was a hollowed-out, empty cavern where once a human stood. But, and this was all I cared about, I finished writing my first book. The only problem was that I couldn’t look at my laptop without panic and dread setting in, so I shelved my project for a few months.

5. Give up your writing career

Finishing my first draft and then wanting nothing to with it sent me into a form of psychosis. I was delirious at times, drifting between the stress of an incomplete task and the fear of the journey ahead of me. I thought getting to the final chapter would bring relief, but all it did was open my eyes to how much more work I had to do.

6. Realise you aren’t good at anything but writing

I have no other option. Writing keeps me up at night. It’s the only thing I care about to this degree. I would be nothing without it, so I had to stop being a baby.

7. Find an editor and rework your draft

This part was the hardest, because it meant trusting someone else with my work. I had to learn to be okay with allowing people to have opinions, without taking anything too personally. I also had to find the balance between my own desires for my story and the helpful advice of others. Thankfully, an angel in the form of Mickey Nekomba landed on my doorstep, and I have been able to refine my product into something far greater than I could’ve created on my own. It’s taken a lot of humility, but here I am.

8. Do more research and realise the traditional publishing industry is not for me

I am not on Jodi Picoult’s level (yet), so I have very little bargaining power, and working with a traditional publisher would mean giving up a lot of the rights to my intellectual property. Outside of that, finding one to begin with involves a lot of begging and pleading. Not my style. More information that would have prevented me from starting, because all my life I imagined I’d be published by one of the big ones.

9. Decide to self-publish and head into months and months of existential dread

I don’t want to encourage anyone to do anything harmful to their mental and physical health, but just know this step involved me staying up for 48 hours at a time, drinking too much coffee, stressing my editor out, doubting myself, having panic attacks, quitting, starting again, crying, you name it.

10. Say ‘f#*k it!’ and publish

At this point I’m just going to put the book out and accept whatever comes. I have nothing left to give, and I’m already thinking of the next one. Iniquity, you beautiful thing, thank you for all you’ve given me.

– Anne Hambuda is a writer, social commentator and poet. Follow her online or email her at annehambuda@gmail.com for more.

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