All over the interwebs, it’s “What was it like writing your first novel?”

And the canned answer is: “It was like having a baby.”

Is writing a novel really like having a baby?

It’s said that the novel-writing process (especially writing your first book) is like going through excruciating labor—bringing your book into the world, pushing out a dripping, kicking, screaming baby. And then you can sit back and relax, watching it from afar as you hope it becomes a doctor or a lawyer (but sometimes it becomes the town lush).

Some writers go even further (too far?) with the analogy, speaking of the placenta and other lovely organs….

Since G is pregnant (12 weeks in!), I’ve been thinking about this analogy a lot. And I see the point. The only place your novel can develop and gestate … is inside of you. But you’re in for a lot of hard lessons trying to get through your first book. I can certainly attest to that.

So, am I in a race, trying to whip this novel into publishable shape before our baby arrives (around January 10th, 2010)?

No, not really.

I don’t think of this book as ‘my baby’ for many reasons, but one is because I can’t let myself fall in love with it. If I do, I’ll never write a second book with the same passion and fervor I did my first, and it’ll be crushing if I find out I can’t get this one published.

Yes, I adore it, and I feel 100% committed to seeing it through to the end, but no, it’s not my baby.

Maybe we should take a new look at an old analogy.

The gestation phase:

‘Seems more like the planning stages of a novel to me. All the worldbuilding, all the research, the outlining, the development of characters, etc.

And, unlike a baby, it stops growing when you stop working. There’s no guarantee this thing is going to happen in nine months.

You can’t procrastinate with a baby. And you can’t be lazy with it. It’s coming no matter what (well, almost).

But if you don’t work on your novel, you stunt its growth. Procrastination cryogenically freezes your novel in time.

Being born:

We all know planning a novel is hard work. And when you finally think you’re ready for it to be ‘born’ (that is, you start writing chapter 1), you have to deal with a fussy, spitty, kicky baby that doesn’t want to cooperate. It’s overwhelming. It throws stuff. No matter how much planning you did ahead of time, you find out that there’s so much more work to do….

But it will stop when you do: It’ll stop kicking and fussing as soon as you step away from the keyboard and go play some videogames.

The terrible twos:

If you manage to get past the fussiness of finding the proper starting point, struggling with writing a hook you can hang your hat on, etc, you’ll find that the further along the plotline you get, the more complicated things become.

Your novel will break things you’ve had planned into a million pieces by going in different directions than you expected. You’ll have to create more characters you didn’t know you needed. You’ll get stuck on little details.

But, at any point, you can walk away. And your novel will be frozen in its terrible twos forever. But a real baby isn’t going to leave you alone so easily.

Those awkward teenage years:

So, you persevered: Your book grew up and matured. And you’ve matured with it. You’re noticing how much better your writing is compared to before. You’ve gone beyond the halfway point and have rewritten and rearranged your outline 20+ times, zeroing in on the final scene. Your book has thrashed and floundered, but it is finally carving its own niche; it’s finding an identity.

Editing: ??

And then you realize some of the parenting mistakes you’ve made. No problem. Just erase some of your child’s past and rewrite it….

Yeah…

At this point, the analogy isn’t working so well anymore.

In conclusion:

If the dingo ends up eating your first novel, don’t cry! Get over it and write another one. And then revisit it. Years later, if need be; it’s not going to grow up without you.