There are things no one tells you when you decide to write a novel. They’ll tell you it’s rewarding and meaningful. They’ll tell you to trust the process.
What they won’t tell you is that writing a novel will quietly hijack your daily life and turn you into someone who mutters conversations between fictional people while unloading the dishwasher.
It changes you. Permanently.
Writing a Novel Is a Lifestyle
People think writing a novel is just… writing a novel. Like it’s a single project you work on and then finish, similar to making a lasagna except you’re in front of your laptop instead of the oven.
Nope.
Writing a novel is a long-term relationship, and it’s a dramatic one with mood swings.
Here’s the daily reality:
You sit down to write.
You write three sentences.
You delete those three sentences.
You consider becoming a florist.
You return to the keyboard.
You write a paragraph that is so good you’re briefly convinced you might actually be a genius.
You reread it the next day and wonder who let you near a keyboard.
You mutter to yourself: Did I write this? (disgustedly)
Then: Did I write this? (pleasantly surprised)
Then: Did I write this? (with no memory of the act itself)
Meanwhile the characters have moved into your head with the enthusiasm of teenagers at a house party. They interrupt your thoughts constantly. They wake you up at 2 a.m. with ridiculous expectations. They rehearse dramatic monologues while you’re in line at the pharmacy. One moment you’re buying bread at Target, the next you’re wondering if your protagonist would have an existential crisis in the snacks aisle.
Writing a novel doesn’t politely fit into your life. It expands to fill every available corner and starts demanding snacks.
But here’s the thing: finishing a book is incredible, but not in the cinematic, slow motion, soft music way people imagine. It is more like crawling across a finish line with your last working brain cell waving a tiny flag.
There is relief. Elation. There is the deep, primal pride of having created something that did not exist before.
But also?
Confusion–because now you have to reenter society after months of living in your own head, and society expects you to talk about normal things like weather and television and not the fictional trauma you invented for your characters.
And here’s the kicker: the moment you finish, the book is no longer yours alone.
Which brings us to…
Sharing Your Book With Another Human: A Horror Story
Handing your book to someone else is an emotional roller coaster even the bravest among us should fear.
First you pick the reader. Maybe a trusted friend. Maybe a writing partner. Maybe someone you love enough to handle your fragile creative spirit with care.
You hand them the manuscript, and smile like you’re fine.
Spoiler alert: you absolutely are not fine.
As they read, you enter what I call Schrödinger’s Author State: your book is both brilliant and terrible until they tell you otherwise.
Every moment is agony.
Do they love it? Are they confused? Did they hit a paragraph that made them question your sanity? Are they on page 84 or have they fled the country? Have they burned it? Shared it with your aunt who has since rescinded your annual Thanksgiving invite and now you will have to figure out how to cook a turkey by yourself?
Eventually they tell you their thoughts and you learn something crucial:
Some people will get your book.
Some people will not.
And that’s okay.
Your story isn’t for everyone. If it were, it would taste like plain oatmeal. There are thousands upon thousands of books for a reason. Readers find their authors, and authors find their readers. Sometimes there’s overlap, sometimes, well, there isn’t.
You don’t need everyone to love your story. You just need the right ones to love it fiercely.
Being Edited: A Character Building Experience (Whether You Asked for It or Not)
Editing is a sacred part of the process, but let’s be honest: receiving edits feels like someone handing you a list of all the places you could have written better but…didn’t.
Consider your most beloved creation filled with red ink that says:
“Interesting choice.” “Consider clarifying.” “This sentence seems to be six separate sentences.” “Why is there a horse here?”
Being edited is humbling, but it teaches.
Good editors catch your blind spots. Great editors explain them kindly. Legendary editors make your book shine without making you cry on a weekday.
It’s a partnership, and one that makes your book stronger and your ego—eventually—resilient.
Writing a novel takes over your life in unpredictable ways. It challenges your confidence, rewires your brain, and forces you to grow. It humbles you, thrills you. It makes you question all your choices. It makes you proud beyond words.
And when readers finally connect with what you created from nothing? There is nothing in the world quite like that.