About a month ago, two things happened:
We had to put our dream of living on the road on pause.
I finished my third novel.
When my husband told me that we are leaving the lovely mountainous regions of Washington State back to Philadelphia, I felt disappointed.
We had just arrived from California a month prior. We talked about staying in Washington state all summer long to be close to my sister. We planned camping trips, thought about driving to Arizona to stay during the winter, and then leave our future up in the air after that.
But we had to get back home to our small business, because other business plans have fell through.
Don’t get me wrong. The upside was that I get to see my friends again, people whom I’ve made genuine connections the past two years during the pandemic, who made me feel like I was really leaving behind relationships I will sorely miss while my husband and I quenched our thirst for our wanderlust.
This is inspired from our drive in Montana, where the sky looked like the sea. I drew this while we boondocked around the area.
I’ve grown accustomed to our life on the road: laundromats, the emptying of gray and black water tanks, daily nature walks, sunsets and warm beaches of South California, the beauty of Pacific Northwest, sketching illustrations in the fleeting backdrops of our travels.
While living in our RV, I drew a lot to work on my illustration style. I wrote short stories in spurts of inspiration and need of practice. I plotted out future creative projects. And yes, I finished my third novel. But I wish I could proudly say it gave me relief and excitement.
I only felt the former.
Simply put, I lost interest in it. When you lose interest in your story, how do you expect your readers to be interested in it at all?
Halfway through writing, I realized some problems. 1) It was too soon to write a fictional narrative where characters are affected by the aftermath of COVID (because COVID is still affecting us all), and 2) I relied too much on my muse.
What used to be 13-page long chapters at the beginning, dwindled down to five pages by the last few chapters in the end. The enthusiasm was not there anymore. I focused too much on the problems that I pointed out in my own plot and my own writing.
But I was determined to finish the third novel.
“Let this be a lesson, a practice,” I told myself. Much like my first novel, the third one might not see the light of day. I use the word “might” and not “never.”
I’m allowing myself to write another shitty first draft, just like Anne Lamott said. You can read about it here.
No successful writer found success in their first draft. But that’s how they come to stumble upon better second drafts, and even better third drafts, etc.
That’s how they become better writers and write better novels.
There are things that work well in this shitty first draft, and there are things to improve on. These are lessons that I wouldn’t have learned if I didn’t trust myself to finish the novel. I was determined to finish it, whether or not I decide to come back and work on it in the future. Imposter syndrome be damned and lessons are learned just in time for a fourth novel to be written (something I’m more confident writing about because of how much planning I have done and familiarity I have with the plot).
I’m also being kinder and more considerate to my artist self. I need to remember that practice is just as important as finishing a project.
Now that I’m sitting in my office once again (a huge difference from working on the pull-out dining table of our RV), I decorated my wall with printed art and writing tips. I also kept my favorite books close to me and in view.
The past few months of traveling made me realize that I didn’t need a different place to inspire me to write. I needed more than inspiration. I needed motivation.
So, I decided to surround myself with works (and people, now that I’m back in Philly) that inspire me to get my creative projects done.