Writing a Book Is Lonely
By: Nicolas Cole
Tags: Writing Tips, Books And Authors, Writing Life, Books, Writing

Writing, period, is a lonely pursuit.

What makes a book particularly lonesome is how deep into it an author must go. When you’re working on a book, that book becomes who you are. You feel the things you’re writing about — they’re as tangible as the clothes you wear, the food you eat.

It’s all you think about it.

The material finds its way into every moment of your life. A friend says something to you and you’re reminded of a scene. Instantly, your mind wanders. Or your significant other points something out — a park, a certain tree — and you wonder if the page you just wrote wouldn’t benefit from more description, more trees. The breeze you feel in the morning brings you back to a memory you’ve yet to fully flush out. The coffee you sip on a cold afternoon reminds you of a long untouched loneliness within yourself. Moments of happiness turn into opportunities to bottle and capture feelings of joy for your characters, and moments of sadness urge you to run back to your writing place and channel it into a downfall you’ve been meaning to paint.

For a short story, this heightened awareness for a week straight can be exhausting.

With a book, that heightened awareness lasts for months, if not years.

And it takes its toll.

When I was working on my first book, Confessions of a Teenage Gamer, I was tasked with perpetually reminding myself of what it felt like to be a troubled teenager for years on end. I would continuously listen to playlists of music from that era of my life. I would watch old movies, keep old yearbooks and other items around that reminded me of a previous version of myself. And the same was true for all subsequent books, including my most recent book, The Art and Business of Online Writing.

Everywhere I would go, I would think about my story. My mind was in a constant state of drawing parallels. My phone was filled with anecdotes and story notes that came to me while walking through the grocery store or even attending a college party. Quickly, I’d excuse myself to the bathroom to open my phone and jot down a few lines of dialogue or a potent description that was on the tip of my tongue.

This process went on for years.

The loneliest part of writing is that all this happens within yourself — and nowhere else. I know I’m not the only writer who prefers to keep my ideas-in-progress to myself. I don’t share much about the big projects I’m working on — too many unrefined ideas I’m still not quite sure what to make of.

For the years I worked on my first book, I didn’t share any of it with anyone. Hundreds, thousands of pages were kept in folders on my desktop for my eyes only. Storylines were constructed and then smashed. Ideas were developed and then thrown away. I re-wrote that book in its entirety 3 times over.

It’s lonely because no one is there to witness your labor of love.

No one is there to cheer you on, give you words of encouragement on a regular basis. Maybe that was by my own design, but I have found that even today (having made more of an effort to share my works-in-progress) acknowledgement is few and far between. A book is simply too long, the ideas too dense to be broken down into candy-sized bits for regular approval.

It’s no wonder, then, my first book was accompanied by an obsession with bodybuilding. I spent equal amounts of time lifting as I did writing, with the lifting allowing for daily doses of validation and acknowledgment of my efforts. “Looking big today, Cole!” Those words from fellow lifters filled the void of my nonexistent support group for my writing — a devotion I carried out in the confines of my studio apartment.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about giving up writing. During that first book, I thought often whether writing was “worth it.” All these hours spent in silence, alone, pondering old emotions and reflecting on lessons learned, transmuting them into something compelling, entertaining, thought provoking and open to judgement, yes I wondered often whether it was “worth it.”

But I never gave up.

And in all honesty, I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried (and I did try). There were several 1–2 month periods where I vowed I was done, the project was dead, and I forced myself to step away and find a new labor of love. But I could never stay away for long. I’d find myself walking through a brisk Chicago wind and suddenly feel the same wintery chill I felt as a fifteen year old, transporting me back to a younger me — with a compelling story to match.

I’d race back to my laptop to begin writing.

Loneliness is certainly a reason not to write. It’s also the best reason to write.

As I continue to grow as a writer, I’m learning the best writers aren’t driven by achievement, fame, success, or even hundreds of thousands of people all reading their work.

They’re driven by an internal curiosity, an itch to know themselves and their stories more deeply.

That’s the sort of writer I always hope to be.