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6 Things I Learned When I Left My Job to Write a Novel
I leapt from a comfortable status quo into a decidedly uncomfortable “what if.” Here’s what I learned.
I’ll begin by saying: plenty of aspiring novelists have the drive and discipline to write while holding down full-time jobs, and I deeply respect those writers. Unfortunately, I’m not one of them. So four years ago, I left my job as Creative Director of Brand at M.M.LaFleur to finally write a book. The short story is: it worked (The Arc hits shelves February 8!). But the short story belies the existential mayhem that took place in between Point A and Point B. Here’s the slightly longer story of how I threw myself off a cliff in the direction of my literary dream—and what ensued.
Background: I’d wanted to write a novel for as long as I could remember, but conveniently, I had an endless list of excuses for why “now” was never the right time: I didn’t have enough life experience, I needed to feel more financially secure, I wasn’t in the right headspace, I needed to watch just one more episode of The Office, I had to see if my cat would tolerate being walked on a tiny harness (nope) … you get the idea.
I also had a job that I loved at M.M.LaFleur, and while my desire to write was strong, my fear and sense of resistance were always stronger. But as I reached my mid-thirties, I realized I was living my professional “Plan B” without ever having gone for “Plan A.” The call that had gently chirped at me my whole life now sounded more like a foghorn: “Stop making excuses. Go write your damn book.”
Suddenly, my fear of failing was outweighed by my terror of never having tried. So I leapt from a comfortable status quo into a decidedly uncomfortable “what if.” Here is what I learned.
1. You need a plan.
I sauntered out of the M.M. office feeling ready to claim my literary destiny, but then proceeded to spend the next six months in a spiral of depression. I had envisioned days of feverish scribbling, with my newfound freedom yielding ample inspiration and motivation. But instead, I froze. The empty hours, combined with the pressure I was putting on myself, was paralyzing. After a few months of languishing, I made a budget, lined up some freelance copywriting work, and figured out how long I was willing to give myself to work on a first draft (18 months). With these parameters in place, I was able to turn a mental corner and finally get to work.
The Arc by Tory Henwood Hoen.
2. Success is open to interpretation.
Subconsciously, I was still putting immense pressure on myself by defining success as “write novel, get published, become toast of the town, win Pulitzer…” and failure as “write a draft, know that it’s terrible, get confirmation it’s terrible, never write again, die alone and impoverished.” This perspective was both overdramatic and counterproductive, and after a while, I realized the only way to actually finish a draft was to give myself permission to write a mediocre one. My new framework became: success is finishing a first draft; failure is not finishing. This, I could work with.
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3. You need a process.
Discipline is not my strong suit, but I knew I needed a roadmap and some structure. I began by making an outline that encompassed every major scene in the book, and I taped it to the wall. This outline evolved as I went, but it was comforting to know I wasn’t just writing into an abyss. I split my days by writing from a café in the morning and from home in the afternoon. When I got restless (which was often), I took “dance-breaks” or went for a walk—where I listened to my “Arc” playlist so that I could stay within the mood of the story. Some days, I only succeeded at writing for 15 minutes; other days, I enjoyed multi-hour creative breakthroughs. But regardless of output, I considered every “writing day” a success.
4. You need support.
Writing a novel is a solitary pursuit, but that doesn’t mean you have to feel alone. I shared my concept for The Arc with a few trusted friends before I started writing, and their early enthusiasm gave me the confidence to go for it. As I made progress, I continued to share tidbits, explicitly letting people know what kind of feedback I wanted along the way: cheerleading, constructive criticism, a kick in the pants, etc. Soon I had amassed a small “board of advisors” who were happy to give me a little applause (or a little push) when I asked for it.
5. It’s supposed to be hard.
As I hemmed and hawed about whether I could actually complete my novel, a wise woman encouraged me to “be present for the struggle.” This mantra helped me cope when I questioned my ability, my tenacity, my sanity. In moments that would have otherwise defeated me, I was able to identify: “Oh, this is the struggle! I’m present for it! I’m doing this right!” This reframe was key: it helped me lean into the difficulty of writing, rather than running from it.
6. It’s worth it.
It took about four years between leaving my job and holding my finished book in my hands. For the first two of those years, I had no idea if it would ever be published, and I had to make peace with that uncertainty. I had to believe—truly believe—that the leap was worth it, regardless of outcome. In her book Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, Liz Gilbert writes: “There is a famous question that shows up, it seems, in every single self-help book ever written: What would you do if you knew that you could not fail? But I’ve always seen it differently. I think the fiercest question of all is this one: What would you do even if you knew that you might very well fail?” For me, finally summoning the courage to risk failure has been the most exhilarating experience of my career.
