40,000 words

I want to talk about my novel

23 words from my novel

I’ve been working on a novel manuscript since last Fall and I’ve just reached 40,000 words. I don’t know how many pages that makes because I’m not using Microsoft Word or Google Docs. I’m using software called Scrivener and I don’t know where the page count is. All I can say is that 40,000 words is a milestone. And I don’t celebrate milestones enough.

Do you want to know what my novel is about? I’ll tell you. It’s about a stay-at-home mom who joins a clean beauty MLM in the hopes of living an Instaworthy life. This mother yearns for more. This mother wants to feel empowered. This mother craves community and connection and purpose. In other words, the novel is about female ambition and friendships in the complex world of multilevel marketing. It’s set in Québec, specifically Montréal and Gatineau, because that’s where I live and where I’m from. We should read and write about those places more.

Speaking of Scrivener, I should probably back up my manuscript. If my laptop goes missing or breaks my book will be lost forever. Be right back⁠—going to download a copy and drag it in the cloud.

Okay, I’m back.

One thing I’ll say about the process of writing a book, especially this one, is that I’m constantly fighting. Fighting myself, and fighting for myself. Every time I sit down in front of my manuscript, it takes everything I have not to read what I wrote the previous day and rewrite everything out of perfectionism. I know my manuscript has many issues. I can already think of a thousand things to fix. I just have to keep moving forward and trust the process of writing an imperfect first draft.

I didn’t believe I could write a novel in the first place. I didn’t think I had it in me. I’d put myself in a box, labelled myself a creative nonfiction writer. Fiction sounded too difficult. Too complicated. Too much. As someone with neurotic tendencies, it felt safer to stick with known territory. Essays? I’m good at those. Inventing stuff? Unknown and unsafe.

But something happened to me. I met my writing community, took all sorts of classes and workshops. My community and teachers expanded my mind and my belief that I could, in fact, do whatever the hell I wanted. I didn’t need anybody’s permission to write fiction. I simply had to break free from the mind prison I’d created. Sometimes my ego screams “Abort! Abort! Failure is inevitable.” But I owe it to myself to keep. moving. forward.

I was in a weird place recently, some sort of creative rut and didn’t touch my novel for months. I couldn’t face it. My body didn’t want to listen or tap a single word in Scrivener. It felt too difficult, too complicated, too much. So I let it go. I let my brain rest. Two months went by until I was able to write again. I don’t know how much time it will take to finish this book. I don’t know if you’ll ever get to read it. I hope you do. For now, I want to celebrate what I’ve accomplished so far: 40,000 words.