My First Book was Terrible

In April of 2020 I wrote my first book. By May, I was done. I was pulling 5,000 word days, scrawling ideas on a whiteboard, I’d think of a plot in the morning and write it in the afternoon. It took 6 weeks. At the time, it was thrilling, I was telling myself I was gonna be a published novelist by my mid-20s. I was already shopping which publisher I wanted to use. For half a year, I had a tab open to the Pegasus publishing open submission page, because this book needed to get out into the world.

Right after it was edited.

My first book was a complicated thing. It tried to walk the thin line of a story about people summoning demons, revenge, power politics, and a bunch of witchcraft. And those were supposed to be the good guys. In retrospect, I think the book has good bones, but I didn’t have the skills to tell it.

The first sign something was wrong was when I started editing. Every chapter needed work, every paragraph had to be rewritten. I was basically rebuilding the book from scratch, but when I looked at the second draft, the quality still wasn’t there.

The nail in the coffin was when I shared it with my Mom. This is a kind lady who always finds the positive in things, and she was eager to read it! In preparation for her notes, I told myself she’s gonna say a lot of nice things, but I’d need to keep an ear open for opportunities to improve.

When she got back to me, she only had one note. “There wasn’t a lot of emotion in the book”.

That may not sound that bad, but notes on creative endeavors are weird. If you get a bunch of small, nit-picky notes on moments and characters, it’s a good thing. It’s a sign your reader followed the story and was invested in it. A note telling you your story has no emotion means your reader had no investment. A death sentence for the work.

In the year since, I’ve spoken to other writers about their experiences. Turns out what I had done was a common occurrence. The first book is terrible. We call it the practice book, and I had written one doozy of a practice book.

Lesson 1: Don’t write in a vacuum

I was focussed on the end-goal. Get a book published, present at a conference, win awards. But it takes years to learn the fundamentals of good storytelling. Churning a book out doesn’t make you a better writer, it highlights what you’re already doing. Strengths and weaknesses. If I had been attending writer’s groups, if I had had an editor, if I had posted samples online, they might have caught my errors before I was finished.

They might have told me my first book shouldn’t have 7 POVs. They might have told me books are meant to live in the minds of the characters, not simply describe the sequence of events. They could have told me foreshadowing isn’t just a writer being clever, it’s essential for helping the reading process the events of the book.

Lesson 2: Keep it simple

The plot of my book was compared to Shakespeare’s Hamlet, but not in a good way. Complex, deep characters being handled by a novice with the brush. The only story I had ever written was a hike through a Lovecraftian Jungle, the complexities of Hamlet were a bit more than I could handle. It should have been 100,000 words minimum. I had tried to do it in 52,000. 

It’s advice I’ve heard from film makers, game designers, novelists, and artists. The four-book epic can wait. Start with a story you know you can do well.

Lesson 3: Learn from others

I had a lot of hubris on my first go-around. Ambition is a great thing, but the story I was writing was unlike any other story I had ever read, which meant I was inventing it whole-cloth. If I had searched a little harder, read more deeply, analyzed a few more stories, I might have found a framework from which I could build out my story.

When I pitched my story to an editor, they said, oh it’s kind of like a Jurassic Park for demons. I wish I had heard that feedback before writing the book, because it clarified a lot of what I was trying to do. Some of the story beats in Jurassic Park would fit comfortably into my story and fixed a lot of the awkwardness with the characters. It even clarified what the theme of the story was, capturing demonic beasts was a whole lot like keeping Dinosaurs in a park, something that can only end in disaster, no matter how well-intentioned the characters were.

What I mean to say here is that I could have studied Jurassic Park for good story beats. I could have watched Constantine for a lesson on how to deal with angels and demons. I could have watched The Witch to really elevate the evil aspects. I could have taken notes from the best to better understand my own work.

Conclusion

It’s been five years since I wrote my first book. My second book took a little over a year, and my third book looks like it’ll take a little less than that. I talk to writers as much as I can. I keep my books simple. I read more these days. I put every lesson to practice.

I hope anyone reading this won’t be chased away from writing their first novel. It’s gonna be trouble, but thinking it’s gonna be great is a rite of passage. Write it anyway! Take some big swings! What’s the worst that could happen? For me, I’m just glad that such a painful lesson only took a couple of months to learn.

The fastest way to write your first good book is to write your bad book quickly.

This essay is also available in video form:

My Thirty Seconds in an Action movie

I wrote this up about a week after it happened. April 2023.


Highway at rush hour. Five lanes packed with cars trundling home at sixty miles-per-hour. The vehicle in front of me slowed a little. I was incensed, did this driver not realize they were inconveniencing my day? But their speed dropped and dropped, all the way down to zero. I gripped my steering wheel helplessly, the other lanes speeding past, their wake shaking my little Nisan Versa.

There was movement in the stopped vehicle ahead of me. A man fumbling around in the driver’s seat. I leaned forward and squinted the sun out of my eyes. An emergency? A medical incident? A man finally sick of the same two hour commute every evening? He leaned out of sight. The driver’s side window rattled as if it had been struck. Something was wrong. For half a second, the silhouette of a leg craned back behind the driver’s seat. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Then the driver’s leg shot forward and pieces of glass sprinkled onto the pavement.

It had all happened in seconds. I didn’t even have a chance to consider moving my vehicle, the other lanes were moving too quick, plus I was enraptured by the action in the car ahead. Through the driver’s side window, a foot receded back into the car, and I was left blind. As I waited, and watched, my ears heard something strange. An oscillating thrum coming from the sky, loud enough to be heard over the traffic, and it was getting louder.

The driver threw himself out the broken window. He was nearly bald, wore a tan windbreaker, and moved fast as lighting. Hardly a second after I saw his feet hit the ground, he turned back to his car and reached for something in the back seat. It was a canvas duffle bag, whose contents will forever remain a mystery. I’d love to tell you that he looked my way, that he considered my car as a viable transport alternative, but the truth is he only shot a brief, furtive look at the sky, at that heavy thrum overhead, then ran for the highway’s concrete wall.

He vanished over the side and I never saw him again.

The whole thing took barely twenty seconds, and I didn’t know what to think. An opening appeared in the next lane, I swerved into it and drove off.

It took about a minute for me to realize I should call 911, long enough for that stranger and his duffle bag to be far in the rear-view mirror. The dispatcher answered flatly, and I blundered my way through an explanation of what happened. I’m pretty sure I repeated myself a few times in the explanation, but dispatcher listened to it all politely. When I finished speaking, she responded, “Yes, well… That’s a very bad man. We’ve remotely disabled his car” She paused, her tone reminded me of a parent trying to teach a child that a stove was hot, “Try to stay away from him. Is that it?” Her nonchalant response left me uncertain. Did she just not care? Was it actually not a big deal? Finally, I spoke.

”That’s all. Thank you” After a moment’s silence, she hung up.

That steady thrum in the sky was a helicopter, I realized that the moment I pulled into the other lane. It was only during the long, quiet drive home that I put together the rest. The fact that there was a helicopter meant the police were well aware of the situation, it also explained the dispatcher’s ambivalence. She had probably heard a hundred calls just like mine. Then there was the broken window. The police must have locked the doors when they disabled the car, and when that stranger realized he was trapped, he was forced to create an escape.

In retrospect, I consider myself lucky. Partially because I wasn’t hurt, but mostly because I had been gifted a front-row seat an authentically cinematic moment in real life. My Thirty seconds in an action movie.