There is something deeply humbling about deciding you are going to write a novel. Not just because of the actual writing itself, but because you suddenly realise how many authors out there have somehow managed to hold entire worlds together using nothing but their brains, caffeine, and what I can only assume is emotional instability.
For the longest time, I romanticised the idea of being an author. I imagined candlelit writing sessions, effortless creativity pouring from my fingertips, and looking impossibly intellectual while casually typing away in a coffee shop somewhere. What I did not picture was sitting in my pyjamas at 11:47pm, aggressively rewriting dialogue while wondering if my main character has accidentally developed three different personalities across twenty chapters.
And yet, here we are.
The Delusion Began Innocently Enough
Like most questionable life decisions, writing a novel started as a fun little idea. I thought perhaps I would casually write a few chapters, see where it went, and maybe one day quietly upload something online without anybody noticing too much. Instead, what actually happened was I became emotionally attached to fictional people who technically do not exist, while simultaneously developing an unhealthy relationship with plot twists.
At some point, the whole thing stopped feeling hypothetical. Suddenly there were chapters piling up, storylines intertwining, and enough notes on my phone to concern a medical professional.
Nobody Talks About The Middle
I think one of the biggest misconceptions about writing is that people focus heavily on either the exciting beginning or the triumphant ending.
Nobody really discusses the absolute chaos that exists in the middle. The point where you are too far in to quit, but not far enough along to feel confident. That strange creative purgatory where you simultaneously believe you are producing literary genius and complete rubbish within the same five-minute period. Which brings me neatly to chapter 24.
Chapter 24 Was Built on Vibes Alone
When I tell you I winged chapter 24, I need you to understand the severity of what I mean.
There was no carefully crafted outline. No beautifully structured plan. No intellectual author moment staring thoughtfully out of a rain-covered window. There was simply me, a vague sense of direction, and what can only be described as narrative survival instincts.
And somehow? It worked.
I think that has been one of the strangest parts of writing for me. Realising that creativity is not always this polished, elegant process. Sometimes it is messy. Sometimes you have absolutely no idea what you are doing. Sometimes you write yourself into a corner at 1am and have to emotionally claw your way back out again with a plot twist.
Imposter Syndrome Is Alive and Well
I still feel slightly ridiculous referring to myself as a writer.
Even after finishing chapters. Even after building entire stories. Even after pouring countless hours into developing characters and worlds. There is still a part of my brain convinced somebody will eventually tap me on the shoulder and inform me I have been accidentally pretending to be an author for several years.
I think that feeling becomes even stranger when you deeply admire books yourself. When you spend your free time reading incredible stories written by genuinely talented people, it becomes very easy to compare yourself unfavourably.
The Emotional Chaos of Writing Fiction
What nobody prepared me for was how emotionally consuming writing would actually become.
You spend so much time with these characters that they begin to feel bizarrely real. Their problems become your problems. Their heartbreak upsets you. Their happiness excites you. At this point, I honestly think I spend more time thinking about fictional people than some of my actual relatives.
And then there is the vulnerability of it all. Writing fiction feels oddly exposing because even when the story itself is fictional, there are still fragments of you woven into it somewhere.
Wanting It While Being Terrified of It
I think the hardest part of this entire process is that I desperately want people to read my work while simultaneously feeling deeply terrified at the thought of people actually reading my work.
Which is, unfortunately, not an ideal mindset when attempting to become an author.
There is something incredibly vulnerable about putting creative work out into the world. Especially something you have spent months or years quietly building in private. Once people read it, it no longer belongs entirely to you anymore. And honestly, that thought both excites and horrifies me equally.
Final Thoughts
The truth is, I still do not entirely know what I am doing.
Some days I feel wildly inspired and convinced this is exactly what I should be doing with my life. Other days I reread old chapters and wonder whether I should quietly delete everything and pretend none of this ever happened. But despite the chaos, the self-doubt, and the aggressively improvised chapter 24s, I keep coming back to it.
Because somewhere underneath all the overthinking and imposter syndrome, I genuinely love writing.
And maybe that is enough for now.
