A Novel in Thirty Days: The Rest of the Story
By: Rianne Grace
Tags: Writing, Life Lessons, Mental Health, Failure, Self Love

Short version: I did not complete a first draft during Camp NaNo in July.

Long version: I did not complete a first draft during Camp NaNo in July, for a lot of good reasons. But the point isn’t what I didn’t do.

What I did do, and what I learned.

I wrote on six of the first seven days of July. Each writing session was more productive than the last, and I have every reason to believe that I would have made my goal if I’d continued that habit.

At the end of July, I had 5,867 more words than when I started. That’s not a whole manuscript by a long shot, but it’s not nothing.

I learned that, actually, I can just start writing, even if I feel like there’s nothing in me to write. I learned that I could write a novel in a month. I can write a novel, guys. That feels… big.

I also learned that I could buckle down and focus on the practical rather than the creative when I have to.

So what happened?

Short version: A deer got acquainted with the driver’s side of our car. Intimately acquainted. And I fixed it. And a lot of other stuff came up that required adulting. (If that’s all you want to know, skip ahead to Perfectionism strikes again.)

Long version: A deer blindsided my husband while he was on his way to work. It destroyed the side mirror, cracked the windshield, and busted up the fender and both doors, plus a few more minor things. Unsurprisingly, the car was totaled. It’s served us well for several years, but we got it used and it had high mileage long before we bought it.

Also unsurprisingly, the insurance payout wasn’t nearly enough to replace it. Or enough to pay someone to repair it. There was really only one option left: it had to be repaired, and we had to do it ourselves.

News flash: brand new car parts are expensive.

To the junk yard with me. The cheapest option was a Pull-A-Part junkyard in Nashville. As the name implies, they don’t actually take the parts off the cars-you have to go there and ‘pull the parts’ yourself.

Now, I am not and never have been a mechanic.

My experience with cars extended to adding gas or oil when needed, and calling my dad when something went wrong.

I didn’t have the first clue how to get the parts I needed off of a car in a junkyard, or even what tools I would need to do it. Luckily, I have access to Google and several mechanically-inclined family members.

I arrived at the junkyard armed with a printout specifying the locations of cars that might have what I needed, a bag of tools (thanks, Dad!), and my uncle for muscle power and technical know-how.

I left with all the panels and pieces required to get the car roadworthy again (except the windshield-that we paid to have professionally replaced), a bit of a sunburn, lots more confidence, and a basic understanding of how the driver’s side of a Honda Civic is put together.

Over the next three weeks, I put the car back together. Then I filled out paperwork, arranged to have the car inspected, and got papers notarized so we could apply for a rebuilt title and a new license plate.

My husband was finally able to drive it to work again just this last week.

As if we didn’t have enough going on already, it became clear that my husband’s job needed to change. His health meant that he couldn’t physically handle the work it required anymore, and he wasn’t earning enough to keep the bills paid. We made the decision to relocate where the job market in his field was better.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, a depressive episode descended. My focus switched to just surviving. I made it through, but I didn’t have the capacity for anything extra-like working on a car, or writing a novel.

My mental illness + stress = not a great mix

Of course, life hasn’t stopped coming at us. It never does.

Perfectionism strikes again.

My plan at the beginning of July was to write a novel.

Then my plan became fixing our car.

Then preparing for a move.

Then surviving depression.

Then spending a week out in South Carolina, also in preparation for moving.

And then, a new semester began.

When I realized that I wouldn’t reach my goal of finishing a manuscript in July, perfectionism snuck in and I felt like I had failed. I felt ashamed that, once again, I hadn’t done what I wanted to do.

Shame stole the joy from my novel.

Because I let shame get the better of me, I haven’t added to my story since July. Worse, this time I’d told the world that I was going to write a novel in a month. There were people out there watching me, and they would know that I had failed.

Depression quickly twisted ‘I failed’ into ‘I am a failure.’

A goal is a plan with a deadline, and plans are allowed to change.

Adjusting our priorities according to the challenges that arise is a healthy, adult thing to do. We’re supposed to adjust, we’re supposed to change our plans as needed. That’s not failure-that’s adulting.

A goal is a plan with a deadline, and plans are allowed to change. My mom told me that, and I needed to hear it. Maybe you need to hear it, too.

Just in case: Changing your plans is not failure. Changing your plans does not make you a failure. Changing your plans is a valid, healthy method for coping with the unexpected.

You are allowed to change your plans.

Go reach for your goals. Change your plans as many times as you need to along the way.

I’ll be here, writing a novel in however long it takes me.