In a Cafe Nero in Chichester, on a depressingly wet August day. 153,710 words, 479 pages, a year and a half and 30 million coffees (probably) later, I have finally finished the first draft of my novel.
The process of writing this novel has not been a simple one. I've only ever written one book before, and by the time I had finished writing that book, I had entirely fallen out of love with the characters and storyline. I don't think the book was bad, I just felt like I was an entirely different kind of writer by the time I'd written the final line. I didn't want to revisit it - to do that was approach a younger, more inexperienced version of myself. Sometimes, I imagine what it would be like to sit down and talk to my younger self about the things we like. I think I'd find myself annoying. All Pokemon and Dinosaurs and no substance. I suppose that's what it feels like to read a book you feel you've grown out of.
This book started with that feeling - that level of self-doubt. As I was writing the first few pages, I was imagining how much I'd hate these opening chapters by the time I finished. I wondered if all writers felt this way, never able to finish a book without changing too much in the process. I wrote about ten chapters quickly, and then stopped. I convinced myself I was drawing blanks, that every word I wrote was ineffective and unoriginal. I had another idea for a novel which I preferred and started writing that, but drew to a steady halt writing that too. At that stage, I think I was starting to wonder if I was actually a writer at all.
I stumbled across a writing competition online. The Merky New Writers Prize. It was looking for new writers who had untold stories. I very nearly didn't apply. I remember thinking how there must have been so many other worthy writers out there; those who have spent so many years trying to get their voices heard, or from communities and backgrounds that have spent so many years out of the spotlight.
But then I considered the moral of the book I was writing. It's a myth retelling, but there are some strong, relevant themes throughout. The abuse of power, the subjugation of indigenous peoples, the plight of refugees. There was an untold story in here somewhere. I submitted it 27 minutes before the deadline. I'm so incredibly grateful that I did.
I got the email while I was at school one evening, preparing lessons for the next day. I was so elated I actually interrupted three teachers who were talking about incredibly important teacher-related things to tell them. I very subtly fist-pumped on the way home. Perhaps about six or seven times.
I was shortlisted but didn't win the prize. In all honesty, I don't even think I wanted to win. The writers I was shortlisted with were each unique, with there own incredible ideas and flair. At one of the workshop days for the new writers, I spent my whole time there in awe of each and every one of them. I came to terms with the fact that I wouldn't win very quickly.
But getting shortlisted proved something to me - I'm not always the best judge of my own successes and failures. Someone who ran that prize read my work and saw a success where I couldn't. They heard an interesting voice where I only heard the drone of my own unoriginality. They saw a new story, where I just saw a tired one.
After the book got shortlisted, I felt some wind fill my sails again. And here I am, almost a year later, with a finished book and about to start a redraft. I think I'll come back and look at this picture again next time I try and tell myself a book isn't working. Or, maybe next time, I won't need to.
- Sam O'Hanlon September 2023
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