I’ve certainly said a lot over the last many moons about National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and I’m not really sure I have a whole lot to add, but I do want to remind:

Writing a novel is hard, because it’s supposed to be hard.

And writing a novel is hard, because it has to be done your way.

And your way only.

Let’s unpack that a little bit.

If writing a novel were easy, everyone would do it. Everyone says they’re gonna do it, after all — you tell someone you write books and they tell you they have a book in them (presumably nestled somewhere near the pancreas, or tucked up in an orifice as part of an embarrassing sex maneuver), or they say they have an idea and they’ll give it to you and all you have to do is write it because ha ha that’s obviously the easy part, you shitty ink-fingered monkey. But it’s not the easy part. It’s the hard part. The writing of the thing is the hard part. Ideas are easy-fucking-breezy. Maybe they don’t always arrive so easy, but an idea is a seed, a capsule, a stray thought. An idea is a dog you don’t own — you walk up to the pupper, give it some ear-scritches and some butt-scratches, and then that dog is on its way and you owe it no responsibility. But a novel is a dog you own. Sure, that means getting all the joy of the snoogles and snuggles and the playtime, but it also means getting up at 3AM because the dog needs to go out, and it means cleaning up after the dog yaks up a dubious slurry on the kitchen floor, and it means walking the dog even when it’s raining. Sometimes, you get dog cuddles. Sometimes, you get dog farts. Because it’s your dog. It’s a commitment.

A novel is hard because it needs to be hard, and the novel is hard because it’s yours.

It needs to be hard because it’s not just an idea. It’s the execution of an idea. It’s not just imagining a house — it’s building it. Foundation to roof, basement to attic, brick by bloody brick. It’s you mentally orchestrating entire worlds, people, concepts, conversations, and then doing it all in a way where it clicks together and makes sense and forms not just a hot Ambrosia Salad mess of goop and fuckshittery, but rather: structure and form, story and plot, thought and feeling and meaning. It’s not a grade-school crush. It’s marriage. You gotta put a ring on it.

It’s yours because there’s no other reason to write a book if it isn’t going to be yours. It’s not the money, because the money is… well, it’s often moist, open ass. (I recognize that I do pretty well at it, and the money for me is pretty good, but let’s be clear, I’m a privileged outlier who has also been working as a novelist for a number of years now and who had a long, long freelance career before that.) It’s not the fame, because ha ha ha what. It’s not the immediate gratification, because writing a novel and editing it and shopping it around to agent and editor and editing it again and copy-editing it takes approximately *checks notes* 47 years, and of course the first novel you write probably isn’t even The Novel anyway, you’re gonna write two, or maybe five, or fifty, before you actually figure out what you’re doing. And, by “figure out what you’re doing,” I mean, “figure out you don’t know what you’re doing but realize that this is a feature and not a bug.”

If you’re gonna write a book it’s because you love books and because you want to put some part of yourself out there. An idea, an argument, a fear, a dream, a parade of anxieties. If you’re gonna take the time and the intellectual-slash-emotional effort to carve that narrative bedrock, you do it because it’s who you are, and it’s what you want to do. The novel is yours because if it’s not yours, what’s the point? If it’s someone else’s, who cares? Let them write it. It’s yours. It’s yours, and beyond that, it’s also you. The novel is you. A part of who you are, anyway. A slice of it, like a bisected chunk of heart — a Heart Piece from Legend of Zelda. What the book is — and furthermore, how you get there, in the process, is yours and yours alone and nobody else can tell you precisely how to get there. They can give you advice. They can offer notions. But that map is theirs. The design is for them. You have to do your own thing. You can’t raise their kids, can’t have their dog, can’t build their house. You gotta do your own thing. And maybe that means writing X number of words per day, or per week, maybe it means writing relentlessly for one day, or a little bit every day, or morning, or night, or a long book, or a short book, or an outline, or just a wild feral dash through Word Country. Who the fuck knows? Nobody the fuck knows. You. Just you. That’s it.

The book is the book.

It takes the time that it takes.

Every writer of every book is different.

Every book is different.

Even you, the author of the last book, will be a different author when you write the next book.

So, whether you’re doing NaNoWriMo or you’re just thinking about writing a book, remember these things. It’s going to be hard because it needs to be hard. And it needs to be hard because it’s yours.

Happy writing. Good luck with the book, whoever you may be.

Oh and remember:

* * *

WANDERERS: A Novel, out now.

A decadent rock star. A deeply religious radio host. A disgraced scientist. And a teenage girl who may be the world’s last hope. An astonishing tapestry of humanity that Harlan Coben calls “a suspenseful, twisty, satisfying, surprising, thought-provoking epic.”

A sleepwalking phenomenon awakens terror and violence in America. The real danger may not be the epidemic, but the fear of it. With society collapsing—and an ultraviolent militia threatening to exterminate them—the fate of the sleepwalkers and the shepherds who guide them depends on unraveling the mystery behind the epidemic. The terrifying secret will either tear the nation apart—or bring the survivors together to remake a shattered world.

Print: Indiebound | Let’s Play Books (signed) | The Signed Page | B&N | BAM | Amazon

eBook: Amazon | Apple Books | B&N | Kobo | Google Play | BAM

Audio: Audible | Libro.FM

So, a momentary humblebrag in which I note Wanderers was mentioned at the Washington Post yesterday as some of the year’s best horror — which is a kind declaration and I’m obviously beaming to be in such good company. But! I didn’t actually give the post much of a read yesterday, as it’s been a bit busy around these parts, and again, while I’m super pleased to be in such wonderful company… I also note that all too often, genre lists, especially horror, tend to exclude writers who are not, well, white dudes.

But, that sucks, because it misses so much.

So, here are some of my favorite scary reads (horror, or horror-adjacent) of late that white dudes did not write. (I do not guarantee these were all published in 2019, mind you, and I apologize for this temporary breach.) These are hasty, capsule reviews, as I’m buried under stuff right now (er, not literally, OR AM I), so forgive the brevity, and just buy these books.

The Luminous Dead, Caitlin Starling — Creepy space caving! The Descent, except on another planet! Twisty and turny like cave tunnels! Also, Madeline Roux has a new one out called Salvaged (more cool creepy shit in space) that I haven’t read yet because I’m really way way behind on my reading, for instance I’ve not yet read Annalee Newitz’s latest (The Future of Another Timeline), which sounds kinda like a cool near-future sci-fi riff on The Shining Girls, maybe? I dunno, I need more time to read, and less house to unpack, and fewer… like, responsibilities?

The Twisted Ones, T. Kingfisher — Starts off cool and chill and not that scary and then OH FUCK WHAT THE FUCK.

The Family Plot, Cherie Priest — I am way behind on Cherie’s work but she’s a fucking master of the ghost story, and this one is no exception to that. Her newest is The Toll.

Mongrels, Stephen Graham Jones — may be one of the best riffs on the werewolf subgenre I’ve read, and I’m geeked for his newest out in April, The Only Good Indians.

The Hunger, Alma Katsu — a supernatural lens on the Donner Party? Hell yeah. Reads like a classic horror novel, strong assertive prose.

Beneath the Rising, Premee Mohamed — weird cosmic horror coupled with occult adventures and science-fiction and just a pulp blender of good stuff with meticulous attention to character. Er — not out yet! Coming out in 2020, because I’m a jerk who taunts you.

The Book of M, Peng Shepherd — hey what happens when your shadows go away and then you forget things and the things you forget also go away, oh it’s the end of the world. Not horror really but still… unsettling, to say the least.

Into the Drowning Deep, Mira Grant — fuck yeah, murderous mermaids. Greant (aka Seanan McGuire) is no stranger to tense creepiness and creepy tension and it’s on full display in this monster movie novel. Is there a sequel coming?

Coyote Songs, Gabino Iglesias — dang, the writing in this is is like a Swiss Army knife opening to all its blades and widgets and then all those blades and widgets are used to cut you in different ways — killer horror-crime on display here.

Certain Dark Things, Silvia Moreno-Garcia — I’ve not read her newest yet (Gods of Jade and Shadow), but this is the book that will remind you that anybody who says vampire fiction is “over” is wrong as hell, and can close the door on a book like this

The Changeling, Victor Lavalle — a NYC fairy tale wrought with horror, rife with twisting knives

Her Body, Herself, Carmen Maria Machado — an impactful gut-kick of a short story from 2016 refreshed with an audio version from Nightfire (Tor’s new horror imprint)

Rupert Wong Cannibal Chef, Cassandra Khaw — I mean I feel like the name kind of sells itself, but also consider this is connected to the Gods & Monsters books, one of which I wrote (as did Hilary Monahan)

Sarah Lotz, The White Road — love the sub-sub-genre of CREEPY MOUNTAIN CLIMBING NOVELS, and this is one worth checking out — don’t miss Lotz’s earlier stuff, either, which is sublime — also wait p.s. what the fuck, she has a new book out as of September?! Missing Person? Publishers you need to get better about letting people know about awesome books you’re publishing, JFC — I literally just found out about White Road this year and that was released in 2017, for fuck’s sake, and I only stumbled upon it accidentally, also p.p.s. Amazon your recommendation algorithms are legit terrible, I mean, damn.

ANYWAY, that is a way too brief list, but I gotta go do stuff, because life is irritating.

HABBY HORRORWEEN, SKULL FRIENDS, buy some books, read some scary shit.

Let’s see. Do I have quick news bites to share? I don’t think many. I will note that Wanderers was listed (with some glorious company in the form of Seanan McGuire, Cadwell Turnbull, Caitlin Starling, Kameron Hurley, Victor LaValle, and oh yeah Stephen King) as one of the top sci-fi / fantasy / horror books of 2019. Check out the list here. And it looks like Wanderers is about to crest the 500-review threshold at Amazon, which is cool. Is there a prize for that? Can I trade in a bunch of skee-ball tickets for a prize? Probably not. But thanks to all who have left a review. It helps, because it gooses algorithms and such. It also algorithms geese. Honking geese who steal golden bells.

(Have you played Untitled Goose Game? God, why not?)

I have other pieces of news to share in the form of film/TV stuff and also books and once again, I remain unable to whisper my secrets, especially about the guy I have locked in my cellar.

Ha ha ha I mean, what.

Anyway, meanwhile, here are some new photos. More at Flickr.

I like to talk about the difficulties of being a writer — and woe, for there are many, some keyed to specific stages of being a writer, others that are arguably more universal as you climb the peaks and suffer the valleys. Here’s one that’s been a piece of gristle in my teeth for a while, and this post isn’t to answer it, not really, but just to give it some air.

The problem is, YOUR CHARACTERS COME ALIVE AND HUNT YOU, THE WRITER, FOR YOUR CRIMES AGAINST THEM wait what the fuck that’s not a real problem is it? Who wrote this? Probably one of my characters. Stupid characters.

*rips off sheet of paper*

No, the real problem is:

Figuring out the balance between

Tough love.

And

Self-care.

To unpack this a little, there are certain breeds of writer — me having been among them, once — that express a kind of no-holds-barred get-your-shit-done tough love when discussing any level of advice for new writers. BUCKLE UP, PUCKERBUTT, they will cry, IF YOU WANNA BE A REAL WRITER, YOU GOTTA WRITE EVERY DAY, 2000 WORDS, ASS IN CHAIR, KILL YOUR DARLINGS, PUNCH YOUR CHARACTERS, FUCK SLEEP, DRINK WHISKEY, EAT BEES AND SHIT HONEY. Raaar. Thrash. Pound the lectern.

And then there’s the other side. Where we express in ASMR tones the need for kindness and care, for self-reward and gentleness, for being good to yourself and don’t forget to moisturize and it’s okay if you didn’t write today and here’s a puppy.

Now, let’s be clear — the latter approach is the more essential one. Yes, some art is made under pressure and duress; sometimes you really get a diamond from that compressed lump of coal. But a lot of time you just get a pile of dust. Especially in this era where we’re besieged by existential dread on all sides, and where we start to see more plainly the Men Behind The Curtain who will gladly lean on tough love in the hopes you will excuse their abuses against you and against the system in the name of ‘hardening up,’ I think there’s real value in seeking the opposite: peace for yourself, comfort in art, room to make things.

But, but, but.

There is a phenomenon, and I speak from experience on this one, where self-care crosses a line, and goes from being a kindness to yourself to being an unkindness to the art. Art can be propulsive, climactic, conflicting — both to us and to the audience. And making art is by its nature opposite to self-care at stages. You may find it comforting to create a thing, but in that creation there is inevitably frustration, and once it’s exposed to the world, ha ha ha, oh fuck, all bets are off. There is nothing kind about letting the work out into the world — whether that means put under the knife by an editor or by the readership. (Though here truth be told the anxiety of that act often multiplies the reality of what’s to come — one supposes that this is how anxiety always works, by casting deeper, darker shadows on the wall that are much larger than the shape that made them.) The whole of a writing career seems anathema to self-care. Perhaps that is why we so plainly exhort the need to become comfortable with discomfort.

And yet, self-care is important. Crucial, lest you break yourself.

Problem is, self-care can go beyond itself to become a crutch, an excuse. And it can feel like a necessary, even productive, one — in much the same way we can over-perform the processes associated with writing to the point we never actually get to the writing. (Think of how worldbuilding feels productive, and you can say, “Yes, yes, I’m writing a book,” even though you’ve written a 400-page RPG manual over the last five years but not word fucking one of the novel.) Self-care can go day after day, where you’re not really making anything — you’re just floating. And sometimes it’s real, sometimes you need that downtime, you need to ruminate, to ideate, to put those lumpy rocks into your brain’s rock tumbler in order to polish them.

(Remember rock tumblers? When I was a kid, every kid seemed to have one, and no kid seemed to ever really use them. Shrug.)

But other times, you’re just taking a vacation. You’re floating just to float. And then you drift. And you don’t know where you’re drifting to, not at all.

That might be valuable. It might be essential.

It also… might not.

And it’s really hard to know.

The difficulty of the thing — I think! Because honestly who the fuck knows! — is finding the balance between the sharp rock in your back urging you to move, and the pillow under your head urging you to rest. Move, move, move, versus rest, rest, rest. Urgency versus solace, get-up-and-go-go-go versus hey-cool-your-jets. Comfort and discomfort, battling for supremacy. The balance is in knowing when to be urgent, when to burn some fuel and bust your ass — but then knowing too when to relent, when to ease off the throttle for the safety of the machine, to know when you’ve burned too much fuel and you might set the whole thing aflame… and then burn out.

How do you find that balance?

It’s a real question. One to which I honestly don’t have an answer. I expect it has something to do with knowing yourself, and just writing a lot over a long period of time to give yourself a sense of emotional data. You start to sense the margins of when to accelerate and when to brake. When to move, and when to rest. When a book and its writer need to float in the womb for a little while longer — and when they need to be born into a world of light and pain.

Comfort is nice. But discomfort can have its value, too.

The pendulum swings. But it’s hard to know when those swings are necessary…

And when they’re just a kind of punishment, in one direction — or the other.

It comes at a particular point for me where I’m dealing with the chaos of a house move and the mire of grief from losing my mother. When I lost my father, I was buried under deadlines and did not relent — I kept going. And at the time, that was maybe the right choice? I don’t know. It gave me something to do other than just hey be sad, though of course sometimes what you really need is… hey be sad. Also, losing my dad was like, a dozen years ago. I was younger then (er obviously since that’s how time and age work, unless you’re Merlin or The Doctor) — and that means I was a) more full of bullheaded creative energy and/or b) stupider. It’s hard to know right now what to do. Push, or pause. Move, or rest. I have a book to write but the deadline is way off on the horizon. The balance now for me is in committing energy toward those things that go into the bones of the book: research and notes and lots and lots of thinky thoughts. But I also know that those things can become an infinite road, one you walk for too long before you realize you actually have to stop, get off the road, and get shit really done, because while writing is all the things like reading and thinking and planning, writing is also really just writing, and until you do the latter, the former doesn’t matter.

Which is maybe the conundrum, isn’t it? The self-care doesn’t matter if you don’t also push. And the pushing doesn’t work forever unless you also manage some kind of self-care. And so lies the give and the take of the thing. So we are required to have enough emotional wherewithal to see when we are pushing too hard, and when we are not pushing hard enough. Difficult for us, since writers have hearts and minds like kicked-over bee-hives — we have all the emotional togetherness of a bag of mismatched LEGO bricks. And yet, on we go. Move and rest. Rock and pillow. Tough love and self-care. Trying to find that balance. Trying to see when working hard is a kind of self-care — or alternatively when we have to work hard at self-care. Ever the difficult act of seeing the task ahead in a way that both gets the story written… but that also preserves the storyteller in the process.

* * *

WANDERERS: A Novel, out now.

A decadent rock star. A deeply religious radio host. A disgraced scientist. And a teenage girl who may be the world’s last hope. An astonishing tapestry of humanity that Harlan Coben calls “a suspenseful, twisty, satisfying, surprising, thought-provoking epic.”

A sleepwalking phenomenon awakens terror and violence in America. The real danger may not be the epidemic, but the fear of it. With society collapsing—and an ultraviolent militia threatening to exterminate them—the fate of the sleepwalkers and the shepherds who guide them depends on unraveling the mystery behind the epidemic. The terrifying secret will either tear the nation apart—or bring the survivors together to remake a shattered world.

Print: Indiebound | Let’s Play Books (signed) | The Signed Page | B&N | BAM | Amazon

eBook: Amazon | Apple Books | B&N | Kobo | Google Play | BAM

Audio: Audible | Libro.FM