New Beginnings, Writing, And Everything In Between

End of 2023, I set myself a goal for the new year: I was going to finish writing my book. The book I'd started working on as a NaNoWriMo project when I was eighteen, but which had no cohesive plot at the time, so after fifteen chapters, I gave up. The same book I would then spend the following years brainstorming and thinking about non-stop, whose characters I would slowly but surely start to flesh out, whose plot I would discover along the way. The book that would become my passion project until it hit me with unflinching certainty that yes, this is the book—the one I want to publish someday. This year, finally, I am going to finish it.

Being a published author has been my dream since I was a child, but as I started to leave my teenage years behind and enter adulthood, I knew that the only way to make this dream come true was to actually take it seriously and work for it. At eighteen, fresh out of high school, I was unsure what kind of stories I wanted to tell, what genre I wanted to write in, what language even, given that English isn't my mother tongue. 

But for the time being, I had something, at least. A story idea. A main character. A premise. And that giddy, doe-eyed enthusiasm of an eighteen year old, wholly unprepared for the challenges that such an ambitious undertaking would present once the fun part was over. So I challenged myself to participate in my first NaNoWriMo that November, with this nugget of a story idea loosely inspired by Frankenstein, my favorite book.

Having your prospective literary career figured out by eighteen might sound laughable to someone much older. Hell, it sounds laughable even to me now, five years later. But when Mary Shelley is your literary idol, it's hard not to put that sort of pressure on yourself. I mean, the woman not only wrote one of the most brilliant novels of all time at that age, which remains, to this day, a timeless classic still studied in schools, but in doing so, invented the whole science fiction genre—and by extension, the horror sci-fi sub-genre.

Besides, unlike most people, I'd had the rare... I'm not sure what to even call it. Luck? Privilege? Enlightening epiphany? I'm not a particularly spiritual person, but whatever that strong and sure gut feeling was that told me writing was my calling from very early on, it certainly gave me a rare advantage over most of my peers. I had friends in high school who were way better students than me, but had no real dreams or aspirations. I’ll never forget this one girl who told me that she envied me for knowing what I wanted to do with my life because she herself had no clue.

Now, I am in no way trying to sound condescending. If anything, I’ve always found the pressure to have your life trajectory figured out at eighteen insanely absurd. I only mention this to say that it was this perspective that made me be extra hard on myself, from so early on in my adulthood, when it came to my dream of being a published author. Sure, I had many years ahead of me to gain the needed wisdom, maturity and skillset to become a writer, but I was one of the rare lucky ones, right? The same thing I said I wanted at eight, I still wanted at eighteen. How many people who wanted to become ballerinas and astronauts at that age still chase the same dream a decade later? Exactly. So if I wasn't putting my money where my mouth is by my first adult year, then what the hell was I doing?

As far as first writing project undertakings go, I succeeded. I managed to stretch out that half-baked story idea I had over the 50,000 words I needed to win NaNoWriMo 2019, though I was far from done with the book. I've always been an over-writer, always that one kid in English class rushing to conclude their essays in the last five minutes of exam time because I'd gotten too carried away explaining my arguments in redundant detail. 

Hitting the word count goal wasn’t an issue. The issue presented itself at the end of November, when I looked at all I’d written and thought, “Great. Now what?” I wasn’t just stressing over not having the rest of my book figured out. I was also stressing over what I had written. Did any of it make any sense? What was my main character’s motivation to do the things he did? Who was he? Worst of all, what was the point of it all? What story was I trying to tell here? What was supposed to be the takeaway, the moral? 

These questions made me develop an intense imposter syndrome that also came with a newfound self-awareness. I realized I lacked both the maturity and the skills to write a book worthy of being published at that age. I had imposed this stressful timeline on myself to become a published author as soon as possible, and publishing had taken priority in my brain over what should’ve been the real focus: telling the story I wanted to tell. Not knowing what story that was yet further proved that I needed to press pause. Give myself time to figure things out and find my writing voice. Let the story come to me instead of chasing it.

I decided to put this less-than-half finished draft on the back burner and just let myself live for now. I had no idea if or when I would return to this project again, if there was anything salvageable about it that I could flesh out into a novel-length story, but I didn’t want to sweat it. Maybe the story I was meant to tell had yet to come to me. Maybe, just like love, it would happen when I least expected it. At least that’s what I hear is supposed to happen. 

When the pandemic hit and school went online for a full year, I started writing again. To be fair, I’m never not writing. Ever since I realized this is what I wanted to do with the rest of my life (which, as previously established, happened at a very young age), I’ve always sought different outlets to express myself through the written word. I still have a box of all the journals and diaries I kept in elementary and middle school. Later in middle school, I started writing fanfiction—no, I will not elaborate on that one. In high school, I opened an Instagram account to post my poetry, which has now become my personal account. I still post poems and short-form prose there from time to time, but my standards for what I deem worth posting on my page now have significantly increased (believe me, you don’t want to read my archived Rupi Kaur-esque poems from when I was seventeen.) 

I also joined the school newspaper team when I was in high school, which helped me unlock an unexpected love for journalism, a branch of writing entirely different to what I was used to, but that helped me grow and expand my skills significantly. Journalism also ended up being the major I picked in university. Though my academic journey may have been rocky and I had to put my studies on hold after two years, I never once regretted that decision. 

So yes, in one way or another, I always am, and have been, writing. But before NaNoWriMo of 2019, I’d never embarked on a novel-length original project before. Now that the entire world was in lockdown, however, I wanted to try again. I still left that project alone, but now that I’d already tried to write a book once, I felt more confident that I could do it again. When I started having new story ideas, instead of jotting them down like I used to, as interesting concepts I may or may not attempt to tackle one day, I just… went for it. I started expanding on those ideas and developing them into full stories. 

One such idea ended up being a novella that I finished that year. Nothing impressive. Not even the most original concept out there, really. Definitely not the kind of story I’d pursue to publish because that had never been my intent when writing it. But it was a cohesive and complete story which I had fun writing, and that reason alone was why I saw that idea through to the end. 

Beginnings are always the most daunting part of every new experience. With writing, that fear is heightened. Every writer is also their own worst critic, so the pressure to get it right the first time is real. In all honesty, had I started writing this book now, at twenty three, I’m not sure how far along I would’ve gotten, or how much I would’ve prolonged just the simple act of starting. But the good thing about being young and naive is how fearlessly you throw yourself at new experiences. You lack the life experience, perspective—and frankly, the anxiety, too—to agonize over what could go wrong, and you’re delusional enough not only to think you’ll succeed, but that everything will be all rainbows and butterflies, even. 

And you know what? As misguided and childish that mentality is, it arms you with the kind of confidence needed to give things a shot. Sometimes they blow up in your face, sure, but sometimes, they actually go somewhere. Sometimes, you do succeed. I may not have completed and published a whole book at eighteen, like I naively thought back then, but I gave writing one a try, which then gave me the courage to try again later. It was that courage that made me not overthink the stories I worked on during quarantine, which led me to completing my first ever novella. 

What’s great about writing is that once you get the ball rolling, the ideas just start pouring out of you, fuelled by that first spark. But little did I know that so many of those ideas that would come to me during the following months would be about that first ever book I started writing, my NaNoWriMo 2019 project. 

I started to jot down every new idea. I built a character profile for my protagonist so I could get to know him better. I started asking questions about the story. I started coming up with new characters and fleshing them out as well. Slowly but surely, the characters started to feel less like two-dimensional fictitious inventions on a laptop screen and more like invisible humans that followed me around on a day-to-day basis. 

A lot of writers refer to their characters affectionately as their “children” or their “best friends.” For me, my relationship with my characters always felt like something I lacked the vocabulary to describe. Yes, I partly felt like their mother, given that it was my imagination that gave birth to them, but I also partly felt like God after inventing humanity. And then yet another part of me felt like these fictional people were just extensions of myself. I had self-projected on them my personality quirks, some issues I was trying to work through (what better therapy is there than writing, right?) and some traits I secretly aspired to have. They were me but also not. They were my imaginary friends and my grown-up children and my divine inventions whose story was entirely in my hands to control. 

But these little invisible humans that I made up had enough agency of their own to drive the story forward. They helped me navigate the maze of ideas I had, to connect some and erase others, and finally, ultimately, find my way out of the maze and figure out how I wanted their story to end. It was only after I’d fleshed out my characters to the point where they felt like real people that I discovered what their story was about—where it began, how and why it continued, and when it ended. 

At last, I knew what story I wanted to tell and why. It took me a year and a half to figure it all out. But now I had unlocked a new fear. It was the story itself that scared me. It scared me because all of a sudden, it felt bigger than me. At this point, I knew this was the book I wanted to publish, that, unlike the novella I wrote during lockdown, this wasn’t just a silly, fun project I didn’t have any serious plans for. This one mattered a little too much, had become a little too personal. I wanted to do this story the justice it deserved. My goal was no longer to get published young. It was to tell this one story, which had become so near and dear to my heart, to the best of my ability. I was terrified of wasting a special concept on a poor execution.

So I waited. All of 2021 and 2022, the only forms of writing I did were poetry, short-form prose and the occasional journaling. A few short stories here and there, but I didn’t write another novel- or novella-length story. My every thought was consumed by this book and these characters. I knew I had to start working on it—I tried to remind myself of the quintessential writing advice, that the purpose of a first draft is merely to exist, not to be perfect. But every time I opened a new document and tried to get started on that first chapter, I froze. It had been so much easier the first time around, when I was an eighteen year old eager to write a book and the story looked like its former, underdeveloped, unmarinated self. It had been easier when I wasn’t attached to it yet.

I went through a lot of changes in my personal life in 2022 and 2023. Since the pandemic hit, my life had been all over the place, but it got even more hectic over the past year. I was stuck in what felt like a perpetual loop of identity crises and bad choices. Finally, at some point mid 2023, I told myself it was time to get my shit together.  Author Elizabeth Gilbert once wrote, “I’ve never seen any life transformation that didn’t begin with the person in question finally getting sick of their own bullshit.” I was sick and tired of letting time go by without taking any action to accomplish the things I wanted, take risks and get out of my safety bubble. I realized, as clichè as that sounds, that I was the only thing standing in my own way. So I decided to take responsibility over my life like an adult should, and set my mind to the one goal I’d made so many excuses to avoid working on over the past year and a half: I was going to finish my book. 

Of course, that required actually writing everything from scratch, which was the intimidating part—those scary beginnings I mentioned earlier. My writing skills were heaps ahead of where they used to be at eighteen, and besides, the story has changed and developed so drastically since. But I was tired of making excuses, and the longer I spent away from these characters, which felt like a part of me now, the more I missed them. So one day in early May, I opened my laptop, created a new document and finally started writing.

As expected, the start was rough. The urge to edit as I wrote or to go back and rewrite the beginning of the story until I was completely satisfied with it was almost impossible to resist. It also took a while to establish a consistent routine, which made it easy to procrastinate. My ADHD brain needs organization at all times; otherwise, it won’t let me get anything done. But over the course of the summer, I started to find my footing. 

The story got easier to tell because I had done all that brainstorming and outlining and was so familiar with the characters, and once I settled into a consistent routine, it got easier to make time for writing every day. I also am lucky enough to have two best friends who are also writers, so it’s been incredibly motivating to have that source of support from people who not only love me, but also know how hard it is to write a book. I’m so grateful to have people in my life who understand and share my passions, and that we can cheer each other on when it comes to our projects. 

Flashforward to now, three months into the new year, and over three quarters of the way through the book. Do I think I’ll be ready for publication once I’m done with this draft? Hard to say. The drafting stage is only half of the work that goes into writing a book, and I know that now. But I have long since shifted my priorities in that regard. For now, I’m still focused on giving the story all the care and attention it deserves. 

So here I am now. After putting off yet another mini life goal for years, I decided to finally do it. For the longest time, I wanted a place to document my writings that were too long to fall under short-form prose, too literal (and more personal) to be poetry, or too miscellaneous to fall under any other category. I wanted an outlet where I could explore and expand on my thoughts on different topics of interest, of which I have many because I’m constantly curious about the world and as a writer, it feels like I observe and feel everything twice as deeply as the average person—which can be both a blessing and a curse. I also figured, writing-wise, I could use a break from the fiction novel I’m working on, while still keeping my creative muscles active. Another part of it too is that I want to tap into my journalistic background. I want to put on the interview hat and help others tell their stories, highlight voices that are just waiting for someone to listen.

One thing is for sure: I won’t repeat the same mistake I made when I first started writing my book. I won’t put unnecessary pressure on myself with this blog and lose sight of what’s truly important, and why I write in the first place: because it brings me joy. Because I love doing it and it gives my life purpose. I’ve loved writing from the moment I first learned what words are and how to use them. Even in the midst of uncertainty, when I’ve been a hot mess and every other area of my life has crumbled around me, I’ve clung to writing as a lifeline because it has always been the only thing I never had to doubt. 

Now that I’ve veered so far off into cheesy territory that I might as well embrace it at this point, I will conclude with one last sappy quote. When it comes to new beginnings, don’t worry about doing your best. Just worry about doing it, period. That’s the biggest lesson I’ve learned in my writing—and life—journey, particularly this year. Beginnings are always the hardest part, true, and it’s never too late for a fresh start. I already elaborated on those points. But the most important part is to just start. Just go for it. Rip the band-aid. Take that big, scary leap into an experience that terrifies you, with whatever tools you’ve got, whatever skills (or lack thereof), whether it’s early on in the year, like I did with my book, or toward the end, like with this blog. 

Everyone has to start somewhere, and nobody gets it right the first time. You can always improve down the line, through time and practice. And in writing’s case, which is yet another reason why I adore this craft, you even get the rare chance to go back and fix the beginning, which you can’t say for most things in life. Even then, you can’t do that if there is no beginning at all. So I’ll take my own advice, hit ‘publish,’ and give birth to yet another writing endeavor that my fear of beginnings has made me put off for years. 

Here’s to a new chapter.