I wrote a novel called Hungry for the World and Its Glow. I dreamed of my characters and their lives for two years before writing it. When I did get around to starting it, I experienced some of the best writing moments of my life. But the novel failed.
It’s not a unique story. No one was interested, not my previous publisher, or any of the literary agents I queried, or any independent publishers. I hold nothing against self-publishing, but it’s not for me. I thought that if I tried hard enough and believed, as I did with my first book, that this novel would be published. Instead, it remains on my computer.
Was it worth it?
The easy answer is no, of course not. I wrote this book for an audience of interested readers, and it currently has none. The happier answer is yes, because I learned from the experience and will go on to be a better writer. But it’s more complicated than that. Here’s a breakdown of what I did wrong and what I did right in writing this book.
What failed:
1. I forced things
I love interconnected stories, especially those in three parts. I revere the novels Three Junes by Julia Glass and Specimen Days and The Hours by Michael Cunningham, and hoped that my book could humbly follow in that tradition. Set in Bath, Chiang Mai and Boston, my novel told the interconnected stories of three young women whose travel to these cities forever changes them. But I forced the connections between my characters. I forced other connections as well. I thought that if I was interested in certain themes and historical details, it would all come together organically, but it didn’t.
2. Too much detail, not enough action
I wanted to put everything into this book. I deeply admire writing that gets very close to the characters’ and their experiences. But in my novel, those details didn’t resonate with the action of the story. In fact, they impeded any action to the story. I let the details take over, assuming that lovely rhythmic sentences and precise images would be enough. I wanted my interconnecting stories to say everything I wanted to express about travel, feminism and the impacts of history on women’s choices today through my choice of images and details. But without enough story to hang those details on, I didn’t accomplish this.
3. Too academic
I did a lot of research for this book—about 18th century women writers, Buddhist women’s rights, and female travellers of the 20th century. I saw the connection between those themes, but they weren’t apparent enough in the book. I thought my interest in these disparate topics would carry the connection through, but I didn’t put in enough work to link them together.
What went right:
1. Working on it, especially in the beginning, comprised some of the best writing moments of my life
I’m not saying I wrote brilliantly, but I enjoyed it tremendously. I had just finished a draft of my PhD dissertation, and still had a few months left on my scholarship to start my novel without needing to find paid work yet. I would spend all morning writing, and the evening was spent researching aspects of the story. With each revision, my prose got clearer, smoother; at times, it sang. I had the belief that this was something. Just because it wasn’t published doesn’t erase that excitement I felt.
2. I got to write about key feelings in my life that I hadn’t written about before
The novel is heavily based on my own experiences: as a first time study abroad student, then a researcher in another country, and finally a ‘re-pat’, returning to America. I expressed moments of my life that had no shape or interest to me as nonfiction pieces. I wrote about these refracted experiences through my characters. I felt I was writing down essential parts of my life, my walk in the sun. It was a glorious discovery. I remember taking a walk and stopping every few minutes because I had a new detail or idea I wanted to add to my story that I would quickly punch into the notes app on my phone. Once I opened one memory, more came to mind, and it was a wonderful feeling to unleash so much.
3. I got to do interesting research
Eighteenth century Bluestocking women, and the current debate over the ordination of nuns in Thailand, and famous women travellers of the 20th century: this might not be your area, but it was fascinating to me.
I won’t pretend that the failure of this book isn’t disappointing, or that the lessons I learned from writing it are greater than that disappointment.
I sacrificed a lot of my time to write that book, time I could have spent writing something that would have actually furthered my writing career, rather than stall it. Two years isn’t terribly long to write a novel, I realize, especially with all that happened during that period: getting married, a full-time job, and then pregnant. But I worked on this book at every spare moment: my lunch break, evenings and weekends. It took over my family’s lives for two years.
Yet, I’m happiest when working on a project. Whether or not the end result brings me any fame or glory is beside the point. For whatever reason, I’m the kind of person who needs a long-term goal, and to continually work my way toward it. So while I wish my novel had been successful, I can’t regret that time, because creating it made me feel more connected to the world through reexamining my personal experiences and recasting them.
The experience of writing that novel wasn’t worthwhile because I learned from my mistakes. In the next project I’m sure I’ll made a whole slew of new, unforeseeable mistakes. So it’s not the lesson learned, but art for my own sake, and letting go of the idea that I’ve wasted my time without publication.
