You Don’t Start a Novel by Writing It
Most people think the hardest part of writing a novel is finishing it.
They’re wrong.
The hardest part is not destroying it before it has a chance to become itself.
When a story first appears, it feels electric. Urgent. Alive.
The temptation is to chase that feeling straight into a draft.
That’s usually the mistake. Because early ideas are fragile. They don’t need execution yet.
They need containment.
This is the paradox:
The faster you write, the more you’ll eventually have to undo.
From Spark to Premise: One Sentence or Nothing
A novel doesn’t begin as chapters. It begins as a pressure point.
One sentence. No exceptions.
Not because it’s perfect--but because it’s editable. It’s easier to reshape a single line than a 100,000-word apology to yourself.
Think about The Hobbit stripped to its bones:
A comfort-loving creature is forced into an adventure that permanently changes him.
Or Harry Potter:
An unwanted boy discovers he belongs to a hidden world--and that the world needs him.
These sentences don’t explain the story. They define the gravitational center. At this stage, you’re not asking “Is this good?”
You’re asking: Do I understand what I’m pointing at?
Don’t Invent. Explore.
Most writers hear “write what you know” and panic.
They think it means small lives make small stories. It doesn’t. It means this: Your emotional history is richer than your imagination.
When Clive Barker wrote Weaveworld, he didn’t invent wonder from nothing. He fused grief, repression, beauty, and terror into a hidden world sewn into a carpet. That’s not invention.
That’s excavation.
So instead of outlining, you spill.
You make two lists:
Things you want in the story--images, characters, lines, obsessions.
As many one-sentence premises as your mind can produce.
No organizing. No judging. No strategy. Let the fire burn until it burns out. What you’re really doing is emptying yourself onto the page so clarity can enter.
Patterns Are the First Signal of Truth
Once everything is out, something strange happens.
Calm.
Not because you’re closer to writing--but because you’re closer to seeing. You circle recurring ideas. You notice tonal echoes. You catch themes you didn’t know you cared about.
This is where the story starts choosing you back.
In The Hobbit, the pattern isn’t dragons or gold. It’s home versus courage. In Harry Potter, it’s belonging versus safety. Patterns reveal what the story demands, not what you want to force onto it.
Ignore them, and the draft will fight you later.
“What If?” Is a Door, Not a Trick
“What if?” isn’t a brainstorming gimmick.
It’s how you step inside the world. What if magic had rules--and breaking them had consequences? What if comfort was the real antagonist? What if the monster wasn’t the villain--but the mirror?
Good fantasy survives because its questions are serious.
Asking “what if?” repeatedly isn’t about piling on ideas. It’s about discovering limits. And limits are what make worlds believable. Take your time here. Weeks. Months, if needed. Stories punish impatience with interest.
The Promise You Make (and Must Keep)
Every premise makes a promise.
Not a plot promise--a process promise. The way the story will reveal itself. Dracula as letters. The Hobbit as a journey that dismantles innocence. Weaveworld as a slow unveiling of hidden beauty and rot.
This is your design principle.
Break it, and the story fractures.
You can change almost anything--except the promise.
Your Best Character Isn’t the Nicest One
Write about the most interesting person in the room.
The one who can change--or refuse to. Bilbo isn’t brave. That’s why he works. Harry isn’t powerful. That’s why we follow him.
Complexity creates gravity.
If no character pulls you forward, the premise is wrong. Not the execution.
One Conflict to Rule Them All
A story without a dominant conflict isn’t deep--it’s scattered.
Ask one question:
Who fights whom over what?
Everything else is a symptom. This is the spine. Break it, and the story collapses under its own weight.
Change Is the Real Ending
Plot ends.
Change lasts.
Your character must face a moral choice where neither option is clean. Love or safety. Truth or belonging. Power or home. That choice is the theme.
Fantasy works because it disguises moral arguments as quests. That’s not escapism. That’s honesty in costume.
The Final Question
Before you write a single chapter, ask:
Would this story matter to someone who doesn’t know me?
If the answer is no--keep digging.
If the answer is yes--now you’re ready.
The paradox remains:
You don’t earn speed until you’ve earned restraint.
That’s how novels survive.
This reframes the whole creative process in a way that actually feels helpful—most advice pushes productivity, but treating ideas as fragile and giving them space to clarify before drafting flips that. The Hobbit example really clarifies it: home versus courage isn't plot, it's the engine underneath everything else. I've watched projects fall apart because I mistook activity for progress, and the "faster you write, the more you undo" line kinda nails why that happens. Restraint as a creative tool rather than a limitation feelslike something I wish I'd internalized way earlier.
I loved the part about letting things sit long enough for patterns to reveal themselves. That’s exactly how it works for me visually. I’ll think I’m just experimenting and then suddenly I notice the same mood or shape showing up again and again. This helped reframe that moment as information, not confusion. Sometimes the work knows what it wants before I do.Thank you for this valuable perspective to start 2026 Idris Elijah and Happy New Year to you!