The Novel Problem
From my best friend Harriet to Raj down at the corner store, it seems that everyone I talk to is a daydream novelist. Daydream novelists come from all walks of life but share one trait: they have all, at one point, said the words, “I wish I could write a novel some day.” A staggering number of people tie themselves to this dream, some more loosely than others. However, even the most passionate, educated, and creative find themselves burdened by inertia when they try to transform their wish into reality. With no obvious beginning in sight—let alone an end—the daydream novelists often wilt. Why? Because in order to write a novel, one has to start one. And starting a novel is hard.
The blizzard-like numbness of a blank page and a blanker mind snare many a daydream novelist. This writer is not only unsure of how to start, but also unsure of what she wants to start. She isn’t shouting her own ideas down critically—rather, she can’t seem to grab hold of any ideas at all. Without even a vague map, the writer feels helpless and unable to start, since she doesn’t know where the writing is supposed to go.
Frequently more crippling than having no ideas, however, are overly specific ideas. A writer who fantasizes about his novel for years will, more often than not, sit down with the intention of writing only to find himself paralyzed by the fear of failing his original musings. His internal critics are harsh. Even the thought of a flawed first draft opens the door to mordant obsession over his shortcomings as an author—sometimes before even one sentence is finished. For this writer, the pristine page is almost preferable to any marks of his own—because those marks seem to detract from the original promise of the blank page in front of him.
A trip to any Barnes and Noble, however, shows that yes, it can be done. Novels can be started, and even finished! It’s possible that the names on the spines belong to fantastically perfect people, or perhaps androids—but I find it far more likely that once upon a time, they were daydream novelists as well. Rather than bowing before the obstacle of a new page, however, these authors chose to jump in and simply write. Anything. Just as it becomes easier to write in a new journal after the first page has already been scrawled on, so also does writing become easier after those first few words finally materialize, no matter what they may be. Even as they move to embrace the idea of “writing liberally”, however, many daydream novelists see that this method exacerbates the opposite side of the Novel Problem. Left unattended, this impulse to silence the inner critic can lead to impotent language, blindness to poor phrasing, and nausea (for the reader.)
The Novel Problem, then, is paradoxical. The fear of creating uncompelling prose leads to paralysis; in order to escape the paralysis, the daydream novelist must use uncompelling prose as a gateway to fluid writing. In both cases, the writer must turn off her inner critic to make progress. However, should she later forget to turn her inner critic back on, the work created essentially lies dormant, waiting to be revised with a reader in mind. Even with a conscious awareness of the Novel Problem, the task is still daunting. Perhaps it is no coincidence then that there are so many pure daydream novelists.
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