There is something deeply unhinged about deciding, as an adult with responsibilities, that you are going to write a novel. Not a blog post. Not a caption. Not even a short story. A full, structured, beginning to end, actual novel. The kind with character arcs and emotional tension and a plot that does not fall apart halfway through chapter seven.
I have been writing mine for over a year now. Technically longer, because there was a first draft before that. A draft so catastrophically bad that when I read it back, I deleted the entire file and started again from scratch. No ceremony. No dramatic folder labelled “archive”. Just gone. If that is not a metaphor for personal growth, I do not know what is.
The first manuscript is now finished. I am working with an external editor, reaching out to book agents, and in the meantime, I am drafting other novels that sit within the same series. Which sounds impressively professional until you realise that half the time I am oscillating between delusional confidence and crippling self-doubt. Writing a novel has become both my therapy and my torture, sometimes within the same hour.
The Escapism That Feels Like Oxygen
The therapy begins with escapism. Writing allows me to step into a world that is entirely mine, one where I control the narrative and the emotional stakes feel dramatic but safe. When real life feels loud or overwhelming, slipping into my fictional universe feels like exhaling.
Romance is my primary genre, with little threads of thriller woven in. I get to collate all of my favourite tropes into one place, slow burn tension, morally grey men, women who are stronger than they realise. I get to daydream about the men I find attractive and build them into characters who are somehow emotionally articulate and devastatingly charming. It is indulgent, yes, but it is also deeply soothing.
There is something powerful about dreaming up a life you will never live. I am not running from danger in designer heels, and I am certainly not falling in love with someone who owns a mysterious property on the Amalfi Coast. But on the page, I can be anywhere. That freedom feels like oxygen.
Control in a World That Rarely Offers It
Real life does not always bend to your will. Emails arrive. Bills need paying. Toddlers throw snacks at walls. Writing, however, gives me control. If something is not working, I rewrite it. If a character feels flat, I deepen them. If the ending disappoints me, I create a new one.
There is something profoundly therapeutic about that level of agency. In fiction, I decide who gets the redemption arc. I decide who walks away. I decide who wins. When life feels uncertain, writing feels structured. It reminds me that I can build something from nothing, brick by brick, chapter by chapter. That kind of creation is grounding in a way that is difficult to explain unless you have experienced it.
The Self Doubt That Creeps In at 2am – And then there is the torture.
The self-doubt does not knock politely. It arrives at two in the morning and asks who exactly do you think you are. It whispers that everyone else is more talented, more disciplined, more deserving of a publishing deal. It reminds you that online reviewers can be brutal and that your work will not live quietly on a shelf, it will live in public.
There are days when I open my manuscript and feel wildly proud. There are others when I am convinced it is incoherent nonsense and that deleting it again would be the sensible option. The emotional whiplash is exhausting. Finishing the first manuscript should have felt like a triumphant moment. Instead, it opened the door to a new layer of vulnerability. Sending your work to an editor, reaching out to agents, putting your dream into someone else’s inbox is terrifying.
Not Knowing What Happens Next
Even though I technically wrote the story, there are moments when I genuinely do not know what happens next. Characters take on lives of their own, and plots twist in ways I did not anticipate. That unpredictability is thrilling, but it can also feel paralysing.
There are days when the words flow, and I feel like I am exactly where I am meant to be. There are other days when I stare at the screen, convinced I have lost whatever fragile talent I thought I possessed. The inconsistency is maddening. Drafting new novels within the same series while waiting for feedback is its own special brand of chaos. It keeps me creative, but it also means I never fully rest. My brain is always half in one fictional world and half in another.
The Fear of Failure
Perhaps the most uncomfortable part of this entire process is the fear of failure. Not quiet, private failure, but visible failure. The idea of putting something out into the world and having it dismissed is enough to make anyone hesitate.
I think about online reviews more than I would like to admit. I imagine the one star comments. I rehearse the criticism in my head before it has even been written. It is an odd way to exist, both dreaming of success and bracing for impact. And yet, despite all of that, I keep writing.
Why I Will Keep Doing It Anyway- Because the therapy outweighs the torture.
Because even on the worst days, when I doubt every sentence, I still feel more myself when I am writing than when I am not. Because building a series, imagining characters across multiple books, dreaming up entire emotional landscapes feels bigger than fear.
Writing this novel has stretched me in ways I did not expect. It has forced me to sit with discomfort, to accept imperfection, to risk being seen. It has also given me a space to daydream, to create, and to escape in a way that feels deeply nourishing. Perhaps that is the point. Therapy is rarely comfortable, and growth often feels like torture before it feels like progress.
Writing a novel is not glamorous. It is lonely, obsessive, exhilarating, and occasionally unhinged. But it is mine. And for now, that is enough.
