September 28, 2025. 7:05 AM. I closed my laptop and stared at the word count: 102,333.
The final line of my novel—Ördögszaltó or Flip of Doom—hung in the dawn-lit room, vibrating like an overused nerve.
They never tell you what it really feels like to finish.
Not the Instagram self-congratulation, not the “another milestone!” LinkedIn dopamine shot,
but the silence after the last word—when the book is finally out of your system and you’re left,
somehow emptier and yet heavy as lead, staring at the shape your own obsessions took.
Day Zero: Conception and Mania
It started as a scrap of a thought, end of June.
A concept—half-remembered, stitched together from insomnia, a bad dream, and a line of dialogue I texted myself at 3:24 AM.
The kind of idea you half-expect to vanish if you look at it too hard.
I had no idea if it was a “novel.”
Most “novel ideas” aren’t. Most die in the notebook, or get torn apart by the daily grind.
But this one… this one gnawed at me.
Phase One: Discipline and Madness
Here’s the honest truth:
I have a full-time job, a family, a life.
But for three months, I lived alongside my life, not inside it.
Every day:
- 1000–3500 words before/after work, sometimes on breaks, sometimes while eating.
- Plotting in the shower, structuring scenes during insomnia.
- Whole weeks blurring into feverish stretches of writing and self-doubt.
There’s a madness to this process.
Not the Byronic “tortured artist” kind,
but a cold, methodical, semi-psychotic self-negotiation:
If I don’t finish this, I’ll never forgive myself. If I do, I’ll probably hate it anyway. But I have to do it.
The Doubt: You’re Never “Good Enough”
Let’s be honest.
At 50,000 words I was sure the book was trash.
At 75,000 I was convinced it was too long, too odd, too… “me.”
By 90,000 I thought,
maybe, if I rewrite every sentence, it’ll be mediocre enough to pass for something publishable.
Doubt is not a demon you defeat.
You learn to write with it hanging off your back, gnawing at your ear.
The Secret: Structure is Salvation
What got me through?
- Ruthless outlining.
- Obsessive tracking: chapters, word counts, sprints.
I never waited for the Muse.
The Muse is unreliable, probably drunk, and spends most of her time with more successful writers.
I wrote because I said I would.
Every day, until I had 30 chapters.
And then I wrote some more.
The Finish Line: Emptiness, Relief, and Fear
When the final chapter was done, I felt… nothing.
Not joy, not pride—just a slow deflation.
I wandered around the apartment, brewed coffee, looked at my own hands as if they belonged to someone else.
Maybe I thought I’d feel “like a writer.”
But mostly I just felt tired, and a little scared.
Scared of re-reading it.
Scared of showing it to anyone.
Scared of how much of myself I’d left exposed on the page.
What Now?
Now the ritual begins:
- Set it aside. Don’t touch the manuscript for a week.
- Re-read with cold eyes. Pretend someone else wrote it.
- Ask for honest feedback (from someone who won’t coddle you).
- Rewrite. Prune. Suffer.
- And then—maybe—send it into the world, hoping someone, somewhere, will care.
The Takeaway: There’s No Magic. Only Work.
If you’re reading this and you want to write a novel:
You can. But you’ll have to live with the doubt. You’ll have to show up every day, regardless of how you feel.
You’ll have to let yourself become obsessed.
And at the end, you’ll be relieved and empty and, hopefully, just a little proud.
I’m not sure if my book is any good.
But it’s done—and for one silent Sunday morning,
that’s all that matters.
If you’ve finished a book—or tried, or failed, or are still wrestling with the beast—
leave a comment. Tell me how you survived.
We’re all in this together,
alone.
#writinglife #authordoubt #noveldraft #writersof2025 #processnotproduct #doubtanddiscipline
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