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Surely, it’s normal, I tell myself. I can’t be that unusual. I’m in a slump, a funk, and am chastising myself for not getting it right.
Yes, I’m an older beginning fiction writer who wants the process to be doable, attainable, and not so hard. But darn it, that’s not to be.
During the pandemic, I decided to try my hand at fiction. I’ve written non-fiction for my whole career (academic journal articles, books for academics and business leaders, newspaper columns, this blog). I tried fiction a decade ago with an online course and gave up, saying that I’m just a bad liar. One of my coursemates at the time said, “Fiction’s not lying, it’s using your imagination.” It took me ten years to accept that and try again.
So, I’m putting my whole heart, head, and loads of time into this new venture. I’ve got four really bad novels in the hopper and am trying to turn two of them into “not-so-bad work.” I’ve gotten feedback. I’ve got resources. I’ve got multiple lists of what I need to do—develop a premise and story arc, create character arcs, cultivate plots and subplots, write story beats and turning points, build in conflict, stakes, goals, motivations, tension, pacing, themes, emotion, and find a point of view…. I’m exhausted just listing those and each category has at least twenty elements to include.
But I burned out recently. I reached a point where I've spent hours revising, editing, trying to hit those elements, and then, when others reviewed it all, I felt struck down by the sense that I’m Sisyphus, pushing that blasted rock without making progress.
After some time away from the whole endeavor, I had an epiphany: I hadn’t spent enough time after all. The widely touted need for “10,000 hours,” as an average or goal for people to become an expert at something, has been discussed ad nauseam. But the point holds in general terms. You need a lot of deliberate, intentional practice to get better at something.
Had I put in 10,000 hours in learning to write fiction since the start of the pandemic? Even if I’m generous with my hour estimates—say 15-20 hours a week for the first couple of pandemic years and much more recently—the answer is a strong “no.” We’re talking 2,000 hours tops, nowhere near 10,000. With that utterly dispiriting realization, I see it will take another five to six years to get to 10,000 hours, and I do not have that kind of patience. So now what?
I considered quitting altogether and then decided to give it one more shot but needed a new approach.
On a recent trip to Vietnam, I didn’t work on a big project, but I did write. Lots. About what I felt and saw and heard. I tried to capture it all. One day, I sat in the Na Ka Plum Valley of northern Vietnam and soaked up the beauty. Quiet, save for a few mooing cows and chirping birds, I let it flow around me and wrote in my notebook. It felt wonderful and freeing. Notebooks are my favorite friends at times.
I talked myself off a ledge, am moving forward, and feel much more settled. I’ll try hard to be more purposeful, intentional, and deliberate going forward. By slowing down and giving myself some space to think this through and plan the next steps, I hope to speed up later. Wish me luck.
