Meg Dowell Writes

This is going to sound really dumb—an “uh-duh” moment for you smart people out there. But I just recently figured out what it means to sit down, shut most of your brain off, and write a novel.

I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember. I’ve talked about writing in practically every post I’ve publicized since last January. And I realized that, looking back on every novel attempt I’ve ever made, the only three I haven’t completely wanted to burn were written in thirty-one days or less.

My point? I think too much.

During challenges like NaNoWriMo and JulNoWriMo, it’s impossible to write a good novel. All you’re ever thinking about is words, words, words. The logical part of your brain (if you ever dare to use it) shuts off. For me, November (and last year, July) was filled with words. I’d sit down and pour out thousands and thousands of them without stopping to think, “What am I doing?”

The reason those were some of my best works (not great, but my best) were because, in a panic, my writing voice came stumbling out. Every writer has one: it’s not you, but your characters, adjectives, and metaphors speaking with and lacking quotation marks. And during those months that I wasn’t in a panic, wrote slowly, and tied that voice down, nothing flowed.

It’s March. There’s no official MarNoWriMo (though that would be AWESOME!). Yet I’ve written over 12,000 words in three days, fueled by this voice I’d never known existed before. All I did was this: stop trying to be a good writer, sit down, and let it all come tumbling out.

I never realized that you can’t read a book, go over to your computer, and write one just like it. I mean, I’m sure I knew that, but I think that’s what I was always trying to do. That’s why One Summer lasted two and a half chapters. That’s why I haven’t been able to write anything in two months. I was holding myself back, comparing myself to my favorite authors, saying, “I’ll never get there. I can’t.”

Don’t ever compare yourself to anyone else. That’s the mistake I keep making. But with this novel, which I have yet to name (the really fun part), it’s different. I’ve thrown caution to the wind. My metaphors are daring, my dialogue is short. My style is scary. Heck, this whole experience is scary. But now I know for sure I’m not just majoring in English for nothing. This is going somewhere.

I want to hear about your writing experiences. Fun times, eh?

Love&hugs, Meg♥