Write. Your. Book. This. Year.
A gently bossy prescription.
Happy New Year, friends! While the Owens Valley remains dry and cracked as a chapped lip, the Sierras are wearing their winter mantle of white, that familiar frozen sweater. I love watching the snow level shift up and down the slope with each new front like the hem of a pant leg tugged in an impatient toddler’s greasy fist. The mountains are, by these metaphors, dressed and undressed by weather. So are we.
In a moment where hatred (or at the very least, ignorance) seems to reign as the once and future King of America, a strained but liberally-applied optimism seems like a helpful balm. Butter on the tough crust of this cold, dark season.
It is in that spirit that I want to tell you that things have only just begun, and this can still be your year—the year you write that book you’ve been saying you’ll get around to for the last decade or two.
Possibly it’s not a book at all, but a burrito truck or a ukulele ensemble or your first solo show as a painter. You get me: your dream. The one you sometimes shrink from even admitting you have, because to say “I’m a writer” (or “burrito guy”) seems presumptuous, delusional, or like a blood oath on a contract you aren’t sure you can fulfill.
But you can fulfill it. Like an Amazon warehouse minus the worker abuse and the 7,000 robots, you can deliver. What’s more, the world needs you to.
I’ve been coaching a few writers, which is so much fun. One just finished a draft of a fantasy novel (yay, Violet!!) and two others are working on memoirs; then I’m helping a friend with a young adult fantasy/dystopia (so fun).
I’ve noticed that even in this relatively small sample size, the writers’ needs and fears tend to echo one another. They crave a system by which to accomplish the work, and the accountability to make sure they stick with the plan. Mostly, writers working on first drafts need to be encouraged KEEP GOING and DO NOT REVISE BEFORE FINISHING—so if you need a TL;DR, there it is.
But I thought I’d share what seems to work for me and many of the writers I know. Here are 11ish nonsequential steps to completing a thing in 2026.
How to finally write your book:
Step 1. Make a habit, however small. Write every day (weekday), even if 15 minutes is all you can squeeze. Write for time, or write for word count, I don’t care. But be consistent about showing up.
Step 1b, Grow your small habit into a medium or large one. With my writers who have never had a strong routine before, we start with 15 minutes, 5 days a week. Then we increase very gradually, adding time every 2-4 weeks, until they’re writing 45 minutes to an hour 5 days a week. At that point — and only at that point — I tell them to advance to writing for a minimum word count.
Two. Commit to a concept. Choose an idea. Let it choose you. Either way, at some point (an early point), you have to go with it despite the inevitable doubt that will arise (I think the same would hold true for starting a business, going back to school, or planting a large vegetable garden). Not committing, or constantly finding a “better” book idea, is a sure-fire path to never finishing a book. Or a garden.
Third, build a library of supportive materials (The War of Art, Bird by Bird, On Writing, Big Magic, etc)—but don’t over-subscribe to prescriptive advice, present company’s included. “You go on your nerve,” as Frank O’Hara wrote. I like to keep these books handy as references rather than reading them in big gulps.
Support (writing discipline or practice) books like Pressfield’s War of Art are to me distinct from craft books (Karr’s The Art of Memoir, McKee’s Story, etc), Read about technique all you want, but it’s the “get er done” volumes that I recommend keeping within arm’s reach.
Four, create a workspace with practical tools and “magical” corners. Maybe you have post-it notes alongside inspiring quotes. Possibly rocks and shells. Tarot cards? Sure! Keep this space cleanish, organized, and ready so you can sit down and get to work without a fuss.
Exceptions apply if you have a very young child or a job you literally work 16-24 hours a day (ahem, wildland firefighters); prepare, then, to write wherever you can. Ready the Notes app! That’s where I wrote about 50 thousand words of notes toward the first draft of my memoir. Create a “workspace” that works for your season of life. When it’s possible, I love a huge fucking desk and highly recommend it. But whether you have a dreamy room overlooking the ocean, or a phone in your hand while standing on a two-track road in blinding smoke, it makes no difference. A writer is one who writes.
Five. Do not share your work prematurely or with the wrong people. There’s a lot of emphasis out there on feedback and workshop, and that has its place, but I’ve seen too many writers crushed by early criticism. Keep your project close, maybe even for multiple drafts, and then share only with trusted sources of encouraging feedback.
Sixth, focus on the process. Don’t think too many steps ahead, or misdirect your energies focusing on agents, queries, or submissions when you don’t even have a thing to sell yet. Put the horse solidly in front of the cart and just DO THE WORK. If you write something great, agents will be fighting to represent you. But put that out of your mind until you’ve done the work.
Seven, tend to your health — mental and physical. Don’t go overboard on exercise —ahem — like some people. Just move enough, eat well-ish enough, and get enough therapy to feel grounded and sane. Not that being unbalanced and/or drunk hasn’t worked for some very successful writers. But for most of us, health helps.
Eighth, find your people. If you struggle with accountability, get someone to hold you to your goals (shameless plug here for my coaching and developmental editing services). If you need a cheerleader, find a friend who’ll check in and say that can’t wait to read whatever it is you’re writing, or buy a burrito from you, or come to your ukulele meetups. If you happen to have a partner who will remind you to eat, or better yet, feed you, that’s amazing. But support can come from anywhere.
Nine. Minimize or eliminate personal drama. Yes, this is a choice. I never thought it was, so I was often mired in drama…for the first 15-20 years of my writing life. Lol. I’m the last one to blame you if you’re stuck in this cycle, but I do promise you that stopping the drama will help the work. It may be the only way you’ll ever get it done.
Consider how you might be using a tumultuous marriage, high stress job, or lowkey eating disorder to avoid your calling. Yes, the problem is tough in its own right, and it feels like it happens TO you…but your refusal to step away or get adequate help might simultaneously enable you to hide from your dream. I did that. I did all of those.
Find your way into a steady life, and the work will flow. As someone—possibly Baudelaire? No, Flaubert— said: “Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work.”
Ten: set goals you can actually achieve. Nothing will kill your confidence faster than beating yourself up because you didn’t draft a novel in three weeks. Set goals that sound EASIER than what you think you can do. That’s why I always start writers on 15 minutes a day. Unless even that amount sounds intimidating; then we begin with 5 minutes. Make it the easiest thing you can think of doing—and soon an hour will feel easy.
Eleven. Don’t revise too soon. By which I mean: when you’re writing a first draft of a book, do not revise AT ALL until the draft is complete. That’s right: not at all. Do not fix a single comma. I’ve seen countless writers delayed or stopped in their tracks by a compulsion to go back and “fix” what they’ve done. This is a recipe for writing a single “perfect” chapter…and never having a book.
Just this week, in a coaching session, a writer told me that she was “re-reading” her material. “What do you mean, re-reading?” I asked suspiciously. Because skimming your material to remember the plot or get into the rhythm of the voice is great, but reading can quickly become just-fixing-this-one-little-verb which quickly becomes revising the first chapter for three weeks.
She was revising. In a rare moment of utter prescription, I lovingly (I hope) exclaimed, “NO!” We both laughed at how adamant - bordering on stern - I had suddenly become. But I meant what I told her, which is what I’m telling you: I’m here to make sure you get this done. To finish, you have to keep moving forward.
I don’t have to tell you that’s a metaphor for everything.
Be well, happiest of New Years, and I promise I’m working on a post exclusively about plants! For now I’ll just say that I’m astounded our lettuce keeps surviving light frosts. I had no idea the tender-leaved plant was capable of such a thing. And you don’t know what you’re capable of, either.
Maybe it’s time to fuck around, and find out.
With love,
Kelly
Love this.