Falling in and out of love with your story

What does a writer do when the spark just isn't there anymore?

Last month I opened a manuscript I hadn’t touched in a while. It was a story I’d had so much fun writing the first time around. Drafting it felt like leaning into a warm wind—I knew exactly where I was going, and the going was easy.

But when I read the first chapter again, I felt nothing. Not loathing. Not embarrassment. Just—absence.

My first instinct was alarm. Have I outgrown this story? Have I spent too much time with it? Is the spark—that specific, shimmery thing that made me want to write the book in the first place—actually gone forever?

Dead feelings as diagnostic information

When I originally shared the first draft of the book with my crit partners, they enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it (with lots of constructive feedback thrown in, of course).

So what happened during that hiatus when the book sat in the metaphorical drawer? Did I change so much as a writer during that time that I couldn’t call this story “good” anymore?

Or, what if I—in letting this story I’d been itching to write spill out onto the page—mentally put the need to write it behind me, like it was some kind of bad memory I’d worked out in therapy and now could stow away forever?

Instead of panicking, I told myself: the lack of excitement is information. It could be helpful in diagnosing something that’s off about the story. For example:

• Maybe I’m avoiding a scene or a plot element that I haven’t admitted to myself I’m avoiding.

• Maybe the structure of the story drifted away from the original “what if,” the gleaming engine that kickstarted the book in the first place—so that now the manuscript is technically functional but emotionally hollow.

• Maybe the way I ended the book wasn’t really how I wanted to, and there’s an inner disappointment in the way it’s ended that’s keeping me from going back and dealing with it.

If I accept this premise, I can set out to re-examine the book. I can reread the early drafts with an eye toward what made me excited to write it in the first place. List out the scenes and find where there might be holes or ideas unexamined or unaddressed. Plot the energetic and emotional ups and downs across all the scenes, to find where the story might be flagging.

Settling into a long-term relationship with the book

Another theory is that maybe the spark is supposed to die. Or not die, exactly, but soften—turning into loyal affection, trust, and belief, maturing beyond the initial heart-fluttering excitement.

The first draft of a book is the falling-in-love: the rush and discovery of finding out who the characters are and what they need while you’re writing. By the second or third draft, the fireworks are gone. Writing the book becomes a bit of a slog. It can be confusing, frustrating, and hard. It’s the part of the relationship where you’re not just playing around, but you’re actually having to do the dishes and pay the bills.

Maybe the actual craft is showing up to a book you don’t currently feel anything about and trusting that the showing up is the whole point.

In addition to other book projects I’m currently writing, I’ve recently had to go back to my first book, which is coming out in November, to carefully proofread it for any final typos. I started writing this book in 2010. I’ve read it, rewritten it, tweaked it, and questioned it so many times over sixteen years that I can’t even tell if it’s good anymore. I read the prose and wonder if anyone will like it. I love the characters like they’re my own family, but will they appeal to anyone else?

Still, even if I don’t feel the overwhelming excitement when I read it, I do still find a quiet pride and affection for the story and my characters as I reacquaint myself with the book word by word. And that’s how I know I’m doing the right thing by bringing it into the world.

Taking it slow

I really enjoyed Anne F. Hag’s suggestions in “How to Reconnect with a Draft You No Longer Want to Write” on Jane Friedman’s blog. She suggested foremost that the writer investigate whether they might be facing creative burnout—which honestly, might be what’s going on with me. I’m juggling too many demands and projects in flight to properly take the time to enjoy the process, and that might be why I’m finding myself a little “dry” in the emotion department.

Hag suggests giving yourself permission to pause. Even putting the draft away for a while until you feel a little bit of interest in it again. Then, she suggests going slowly:

Reaffirming your why may get you back to your draft, but I advise doing it slowly. Reread a scene or chapter you loved. Revision is not the goal here. The goal is to remember your own voice. And remember why you have to raise it. And when you do start writing again, do it gently: set realistic expectations and honor them. Establish a structure that you follow, such as time blocking and using Pomodoro timers, to ensure you don’t overdo it. And keep the habit of rest! It makes life a more enjoyable experience all around.

Luckily, once I started diving into the ho-hum draft of my manuscript, I began to rediscover why I wanted to write it and why I loved it the first time around. I also got a new reader to help, a developmental editor I trust, who was able to give it fresh eyes and affirm that the story is actually working.

Little by little, I’ll keep working on building a long-term relationship with this story—even as the story, and I as its writer, continue to change and grow over time.