So, I Wrote a Book or Two

My journey to write my first book ever

I wrote a book. Wait, scratch that: I wrote two books. Mind you, not that they were published. Not that they are even worth considering publishing. But I did it! I wrote a book and a third-ish.

How It All Started

After a decade of putting off writing, something had been growing within me. Like a cancer nested in the unconscious, it began invading my subconscious. I ignored it. It wasn’t until it budged into my consciousness that I had no choice.

I had to get it out.

So, I forced myself in front of a word processor. I would pull my hair, pace around the room, sit down, write, and almost smash the keyboard. The cure was worse than the disease itself. All that came out were undigested bits. But just like after throwing up, it eased the nausea.

Days in, I spiraled upwards in this feverish pursuit. I would write and write. During these outbursts of lush productivity, I would find myself assenting. “This! this! yes! this! this is how it should be,” I would say out loud. Some days I would ramble maniacally and call it writing.

Days out, I hit a block and spiral down: an arid period would follow. I coveted the few words like droplets in the desert, only to see them evaporate in the heat of the backspace button. I would force a few words, slam my hands on the desk, stand up, and shout: “You know what?! Fuck this! Fuck you. Above all, fuck all that is called me. Why am I even putting myself through this? I’d rather let it kill me than go through this,” next day though, I would find myself writing.

So much for writing like nobody’s watching, am I right?

There was always a sense of urgency in the back of my head. “Hurry,” I would tell myself “before death comes knocking.” Not that I have a reason to believe I’ll die anytime soon. But I didn’t want to die with the tumor lodged in my head. It wanted to extirpate first, then I would have a fighting chance — a living chance.

As I wrote the symptoms subsided. During bad days I reduced my hate to “Fuck you and see you tomorrow,” while I closed the door. I knew I would come back. Out of spite and out of self-loathing, but love always triumphed.

Then one day, magic happened. I reached 50k words. What a milestone! But soon after, I hit another block. The biggest yet.

I couldn’t write. I went over what I had, edited it, and retraced my steps. I added a few more things and took things those pointless. I looked at the word count: 30k words.

Ouch!

Writer’s Block?

It wasn’t the infamous writer’s block. Simply said, it was beyond me. The story I was writing left me with so many questions; so many that the book couldn’t answer them; so many that I couldn’t answer them myself. To make matters worse, not only did I lack the skill, but I lacked the imaginative (and descriptive) powers to create that fiction piece.

Weirdly, this did not dissuade me, and yet more surprisingly, I did not find myself cussing either. I was excited. If you are like me, it is the unanswered that makes everything more fun: it is the cherry on top of the cake called life.

In my journey, I looked for books that would help me continue, but there weren’t many. The problem wasn’t lack of books, but lack of self-knowledge.

So, I did the unexpected. I did what I almost swore I wouldn’t do: I closed the manuscript, stored it, and began a new book.

Almost by magic, I was no longer a writer but an explorer. Like a cartographer with an incomplete map, I needed to get in there — literally. I needed to chart the uncharted before venturing into my opus magnum.

Not only did I need to start with something easier, but I needed to retrace a part of my life that would shed that light. I needed that figment of imagination found in closer-to-reality fiction before pursuing a more faraway world.

Since my book was about love, the undying tumor held part of the answer. Why shouldn’t it? After all a decade-long yearning, love couldn’t be that far off. So, I dug deep into the tumor. The answer had to be there. I needed to examine and understand its nature.

New Beginnings

It didn’t pain me as much as I thought it would. Starting a new book, I mean. It did make me feel that I cut short the purging of an ailment. After all that first book was the reason why I started this all.

But my reason for writing was still there, I booted up a new Word document and started anew. As I typed away, I feared my subconscious would gnaw at me. But it remained appeased, it somehow knew that I was working on it.

“First improve,” I told myself, “Then finish that other one.”

So, I spiraled into another book, into the cycle of “Yes! This is brilliant,” followed by the “Why am I even doing this?!” Luckily this second time around everything was easier; I had a lot more fun because it was more within my skill level.

I sat down for days, weeks, and months until one day I looked at the word count: 96k.

Wow, just wow. Just shy of 100k words.

Soon though, the fun part was over. I began to miss detesting to write; writing turned out to be the fun part. Editing is boring. But I edited and edited it. After that, it still needed some work. I polished it and re-polished it. The ending wasn’t right. Undercooked.

So, I drew lines, took out the scalpel, extirpated parts beyond repair, grafted new parts, and felt that I was closer. My final creation is close! Still though, I ended up with a half-dead Frankenstein monster.

Still writing…

More than a year out, having written has given me new answers and new questions about love, life, and us.

I must confess I still have the silly thought of dying with the idea lodged in my head. But at least the tumor no longer needs to be extirpated; it turned out it wasn’t malignant. It turned out beneficial, into something that galvanizes and shows me the right way.

Now, I have improved a lot as a writer, which is easy when skill is meager. But most importantly, writing is no longer out of spite. It is born out of love. Writing feels hopeful. Hopeful that I can contribute to self-knowledge in readers. In a weird, and almost absurd remote way, I hope to contribute this way; however slim my chances are.

In case this book doesn’t get published — or not in case, but most likely — it’ll still help with the initial idea.

Worst case scenario, writing has made me a better reader. It just makes you appreciate and understand books on a whole other level.

Conclusion

So, this is the reason why I haven’t been active on Medium. I do miss writing here, but I’ve been busy smashing buttons elsewhere.

Writing a book is a far cry from what I imagined it to be. If you are thinking of writing a book, or it so happens that it is in your subconscious, I hope this persuades you to follow that aspiration. Like going to the gym, the painful part is the beginning. Later, pain turns almost divine, showing you the right way; even that tingling nausea helps you along the way.

It is no walk in the park, more like a walk in the woods. But who knows? By getting lost out there, you may stumble upon something, as if by serendipity you may find yourself with two books instead of one.