If you…

Keep restarting your first draft,

Compare your work to published authors,

Wish you could skip to straight to line editing,

This one’s for you.

Hello Readers & Writers! Glad to see you again.

I’ve got a drafting problem.

And if you’re a writer, you’ve probably experienced this too.

You start out with a story idea, full of characters, plot points, entire scenes. The writing feels less like coming up with something of your own, and more like you’re a historian recording dictated events. It flows. Until it doesn’t.

The scenes suddenly stop translating from daydreams to lines of text. The characters become convoluted and contradictory. Your plot twists are unintentional, and surprising even to you.

Maybe you’re as far as 20k words in (as I was once before abandoning a project last year), or as little as 7k (as I am right now). Regardless, you know (or at least you think you do) what went wrong, and where. The scenes are out of order, the personalities are mismatched, that plot twist was actually just a plot hole.

Might as well start over, with the things you know now, right? WRONG.

It’s better to highlight mistakes to fix in the future, than it is to travel back to the past and erase them.

This is like the number one dilemma in time-travel movies. Can you ever change something in the past, without creating new problems in the future? Honestly, I say that you can’t.

The same goes for writing.

You can’t expect the same story to work with seven different starts. Meaning, that if you’ve outlined a character to be sixteen in one draft, and then change it so they’re thirteen because their attitude was too childish, it might not be until the end that you realize the story hinges on them being able to drive! Whereas, if you had just left them at sixteen throughout the whole thing, you could note their childishness as a very easy second draft fix, and just make them more mature, or give them a reason to be so juvenile.

To keep track of my blunders, I started a “Tie-Up Later,” page. It’s a physical page so I can refer to it whenever I want instead of having to tab out. And let me tell ya, what a life saver. Previously, I’ve started over for things as simple as “her job needs to be as a potter, not a barista.” (Yes, that is ridiculous. But when you’re trying to write the first scene where she works, there’s a huge difference in setting, pacing, and character development depending on what you choose.) Now, I would just plop a note on my TUL saying: Scene 1- Job?

Seriously. It’s already saved me from wanting to restart at least ten times. Nothing seems that integral to the story when it’s jotted down in “I’ll figure this out later” format.

Scraping > scrapping, every time you can.

I hear you. “Rose, what are you on about? That doesn’t make any sense.” It does, okay, just let me explain.

The definition of the word scrape, is “to collect;” scrap, is “to abandon.” Ah, so you get it now?

When writing, it’s easy to see errors as weeds we have to completely eradicate at the root. But in reality, writing isn’t gardening, and you don’t have to worry about weeds stunting the growth of your other plants. Alternatively, I find it’s more like building a bouquet. Even a dandelion can look good when combined with the right other flowers. The same way a mistake isn’t always a mistake when you put things all together.

If you get rid of your weeds by tilling the soil, you run a good risk of accidentally killing the roses you had blooming beside them. But if you pluck them out, collect them, and save them for later, you’ll have so much more to choose from for your arrangement in the end.

In addition to drafting, I’ve also got a comparison problem.

One of the best ways (of only two ways) to become a better writer, is by reading. But be careful. It’s way too easy to get discouraged from your first draft when you’re nose deep in a book that seems to have it all. Plot, setting, realistic dialogue, etc…

It’s difficult to acknowledge the time, effort, editing, and proof-reading that went into that book as a final project. Nobody, not even AI, can produce a 100% ready-to-publish perfect first draft. It just doesn't happen.

The sad reality is: you probably will never think that you are as good of a writer as your favorite author is. Mostly, because “good” is subjective, and we tend to be more critical of ourselves than we are with others. Especially those we admire. So try not to equate your six days of writing production with something that likely took over six months.

That’s all folks!

A little bit of a shorter one for today. I don’t know how qualified I am to be talking about how to write a first-draft when I have yet to complete one myself, but hey, we’re all learning here. To sum it up: keep a TUL, don’t till your soil, and don’t expect to immediately be on the same writing level as a published book. That’s just arrogant.

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A little bit about me: My name is Rose Rodriguez, and I am an aspiring author working on my debut novel. If you want to support me on my journey…

AND you are feeling generous, there is a “buy me a bookmark” button at the bottom of this post. Thank you for your consideration.

Buy me a bookmark :)

If you…

Feel overwhelmed by the unknown,

Put yourself in situations you aren’t sure you’re ready for,

Wonder how to make the most out of a self-paced writing residency,

This one’s for you.

Hello, Readers & Writers. Prepare to be sick of me.

I am writing this article at a desk in an art studio in Pennsylvania (exactly 1,561 miles from home). Why? Because a few months ago, I was ready to be a writer full-time. I was motivated, dedicated, and excited for my future. But as months went by, I wasn’t getting better at writing, I was getting worse. Even though I had just gotten my first ever acceptance to a writing residency, it felt fake. Like, Past me earned this achievement, while Present me squanders every opportunity to write. So why does she get to go?

Nonetheless, I’m here. And it feels terrible.

That is what no one tells you.

It doesn’t actually feel good to follow your dreams. At all. I can’t speak on how it feels to catch a dream. Still obviously working on that part.

What I can say: is that I’ve been trembling since my plane took off from Texas. Is it nerves? The temperature change I didn’t pack enough pants for? A lack of energy because I have NOT been eating enough? Likely, all of the above.

My stomach refuses to settle, and I did, in fact, have to call my boyfriend as soon as I put my suitcase down, because I was about to hyperventilate myself into a panic attack. Three weeks. Without anyone I know. In a state I’m unfamiliar with.

Can you really blame me?

But whether I like it or not, my ambition surpassed my comfort zone, and now I’m living in a state across the country for a month.

Making the most out of feeling the worst.

Have you ever heard someone say that doing hard things makes you smarter? Well, they’re wrong. Sort of.

What they were probably referring to, is a result of overcoming Limbic Friction. This occurs whenever the Limbic System, partially found in the amygdala and hippocampus- the part responsible for regulating emotions- overpowers the Prefrontal Cortex, the part responsible for logical thinking.1

Basically, you’re feeling more than you’re processing, which makes decision-making significantly harder. My Limbic System must have been a WWE fighter in its last life, because it pounds on my Prefrontal Cortex like a bully not asking for lunch money.

Limbic Friction is especially common for someone struggling with anxiety, depression, and other stress-related disorders. Disrupting positive thinking, problem solving, and deteriorating the brain’s ability to put things into perspective.

For me, Limbic Friction looks and feels similar to the start of a panic attack. If you don’t know what that feels like, imagine being on a roller coaster with the worst people you know. Slowly cruising up an enormous hill, inevitably awaiting a drop. There’s a split second in between reaching the top and starting your descent, when both your body and mind anticipate the adrenaline rush of the fall. It’s that, but not in a split second. It doesn’t go away. It flutters in your gut. Makes your head light, and lungs small.

Now I didn’t forget about our horrible other passengers, they’re part of this too. As your body becomes static, the people surrounding you scream all the things you hate about yourself. All the things you can’t do? Confirmed by the mass of voices. Getting louder, and louder, while you’re just waiting for the drop that never comes.

But it isn’t unbeatable, and your brain isn’t unteachable.
Due to brain plasticity, you can actually change the way your mind works. By practicing different techniques, such as controlled breathing, mindfulness, and challenging your negative thoughts, you can alleviate some of the symptoms, and reduce Limbic friction in the future.

So… doing hard things doesn’t necessarily make you smarter, but it does make thinking logically a little easier the next time you’re in destress.

Needless to say, I’ve been in destress.

An email mix-up sent me spiraling and it wasn’t until I heard the very logical statements of my boyfriend and my mom, that I was able to regulate my emotions and come up with a plan of action. Drink water. Find food. Start writing. I’ve done all three.

Now what?

How I’ve decided to spend my time at this residency, now that my Limbic System is working normally again:

• Reading books about writing. On the list, I’ve got C.S. Lewis, On Writing (and Writers) A Miscellany of Advice and Opinions, Stephen King, On Writing, William Zinsser, On Writing Well The Guide to Writing Nonfiction, and I’m rereading the CLASSIC, Jessica Brody, Save the Cat Writes a Novel. (Recommendations appreciated.) Monday, Thursday, and Sunday are going to be reading heavy days.

• Writing. DUH. I’ve given myself a lofty goal of 10k words a day for my current WIP. And before you call me crazy (I am), know that I’m breaking all of this writing down into three hour, three thousand word sprints, three times a day. Once in the morning, once after I’ve eaten lunch, and once to end my day. That’s actually only nine hours of writing. Totally achievable (we’ll see). WIP heavy writing days are Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.

  • I’m also recommitting to Substack. Starting today, for the time I’ll be at the residency, I will be posting personal essays (such as this one) on Mondays, Writing tips on Thursdays, and a short story on Sundays.

  • Finally, I’m forcing myself to journal once a day. It’s not only good practice, it’s also a strategy to limit Limbic Fiction going forward.

• Making writing part of my daily routine. As I stated above, I’m following a reading and writing schedule, one that I would love to adapt into my everyday life (with reductions, of course).

  • If I can keep up with 15 hours of self-enforced writing a week for the entire month, I can write for at least an hour every day when I get home. That’s the kind of lasting habitual effect I’m going for here. I want to be so used to writing, that it feels like withdrawal to slow down.

Those are the writing goals I hope to achieve while in Pennsylvania. But I also have personal ones. Such as:

• Forcing myself to talk to strangers. I’ve been doing okay so far. Truthfully, I’m just mimicking the strangers I’ve liked who talked to me first in the past. Initiating with a genuine compliment, keeping the conversation interesting by asking specific questions that can’t be answered with yes or no, and remembering their answer. As an ambivert with chronic anxiety and depression, talking to strangers is like massaging a really bad knot. It’s painful, difficult to push through, but you can’t deny that underneath the soreness, you can feel yourself getting better.

• Keeping up with my friends and family. I’ve never been a good texter. I’ve got notifications from months ago. Unread. Unanswered. I gotta stop doing that. Presumably, it’ll be harder for me to ignore everyone while I’m alone in a different state.

• Learning to overcome depressive episodes on my own. I’m not going to lie to you, I’m terrified by the possibility that randomly during the month, I could just stop. At home, despite feeling exhausted, hopeless, and lethargic, I have a lot of support. Family who check in on me even though I angrily respond “yeah, of course I’m fine” and then go cry in my bedroom. I gotta stop doing that, too.

  • Some of the things I’m doing to try and avoid an episode include:

    • Making my bed everyday (can’t bedrot if I can’t get under the covers).

    • Getting enough groceries that I’ll be able to choose what I eat when I’m hungry. Otherwise, I’ll starve myself with the excuse that nothing is appetizing.

    • Doing meditative yoga. I’m blessed to be in a building that has a room with a gorgeous, gigantic stained glass window. Going up there this morning in my pajamas, moving purposely, and breathing intentionally, I think that might have been the best start to a morning I’ve had all year.

    • Going outside. And yes, I will be touching grass.

Let me leave you with one more thing nobody tells you, just as a treat.

You are going to fail significantly more than you will succeed. The failures will be obvious, the success will try to hide. Make sure you acknowledge the progress you make as what it is. The path to success. The catching of your dreams. Not every win is the “yes.” Sometimes, it’s the moment you decided to try.

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Thanks for reading Rose Reads&Writes! If you’re hungry for more, subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

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Hello, Readers&Writers!

A little bit about me: My name is Rose Rodriguez, and I am an aspiring author working on my debut novel. If you’re interested in following my journey or are just another Reader/Writer who wants to find a community on Substack, join my chat!

If you want to support me on my journey…

AND you are feeling generous, there is a “buy me a bookmark” button at the bottom of this post. Thank you for your consideration.

Buy me a Bookmark :)

If you…

Stay in bed a little too long,

Feel like you’re losing a battle you never asked to fight,

Want to wake up with a different brain,

This one is for you.

Readers & Writers, we need to get real.

The stats…

• Data from the CDC’s National Center for Health Statistics1 show that as of 2023, the prevalence of depression in U.S. adolescents and adults increased by 60% in the past decade. And they continue to rise.

• Studies from the National Institute of Mental Health 2 have found that around 14.5 million U.S. adults experienced at least one major depressive episode that caused severe impairment in 2021.

• Also in 2021, Major Depressive Disorder accounted for 87% of completed suicides.

These statistics are dark. They scare me. They make me sad. They remind me to take my mind seriously.

My situation…

I am twenty-two years old, but I’ve spent fourteen of them wondering if I deserve the next. I am built out of shame, self-hatred, and stress. My mind is trained to think the worst, to hit every extreme, and to deny the possibility of a future.

When I was in fifth grade, I went to church camp and told a counselor about how I felt I wasn’t a good enough Christian because I thought about killing myself a few times. They agreed that I wasn’t a strong enough believer and prayed over me.

When I was in middle school, I told a close friend that I dealt with suicidal thoughts. They told their mother, who told mine, and I was grounded for two weeks. Around this time, I had my first panic attack. I hid in the closet, worrying that I would get in trouble.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I found ways to hurt myself that nobody would notice. And nobody did. My panic attacks got worse by the year. But nobody knew about those either.

During my last week of college, I called my mom in a panic, saying I didn’t know if I could do it anymore. She told me I was scaring her and then tried to hang up.

These moments were among the peaks of my depression and anxiety. The times I needed people most were often the times I felt the most alone.

And as a result, I have only ever been candid with one person about how my mind works. One person, and now, you.

My symptoms…

Depression and anxiety look different for everyone, but this is (kind of) what it’s like to be me most days.

• When I wake up, the first thing I feel is worried. (You know how on the first day of summer, you wake up thinking you’re late for school? It’s like that, almost every day.)

• Getting out of bed seems daunting because of everything that comes after. (I need to brush my teeth and wash my face, feed and water my dog, take my medicine on time, and for some reason, it feels like all these things must be done at once, and immediately.)

• But then I finish everything, and feel proud, or tired. Regardless, I sink back into my bed and try to contain the lightheaded feeling of thoughtless anxiety (the sensation of being anxious, and not being able to determine why).

• I stay in bed until I get hungry (which is usually very fast), and then I do one lap around the kitchen, and sink back into bed once more. (Making food is difficult, even if I’m only putting something in the microwave.)

• On a good day, I will complete every task I can, pushing myself to be motivated and accomplished, despite moments of intense panic and sadness.

• On a bad day, it feels like I’m out of my body. Every movement takes effort, every word is uncontrolled and harsh, my mood is unstable, and it’s like I’m an observer instead of a participant. I spend several moments in private, crying to myself, feeling so angry that I just start breaking things, and attacking myself for not being “normal”. Then I have to clean up the pieces I’ve shattered.

Living with depression is like treading water while everyone else floats.

It’s exhausting, and frustrating, and hard.

But it isn’t irreversible.

My steps to get better.

• Medication.

  • Now, I don’t want to impose that everyone who struggles with depression should be medicated. That is not what I’m saying here. What I am saying is this: my life is significantly better when I am consistently taking what I’ve been prescribed.

Those pills truly make a difference for me, but they don’t for everyone. Seriously, around 30% of people with depression have Treatment-Resistant-Depression3 (TRD), and are not able to find relief from pharmaceuticals.

• Mindfulness.

  • This is something that I do recommend for nearly everyone who has depression, and especially anxiety.

If I wanted to attribute the origins of mindfulness to the moment it was introduced to the West by a white man (as history books often do), I would say that mindfulness as a potential therapeutic practice was first established in 19794 after Jon Kabat-Zinn (MIT graduate, yoga teacher, protestor, activist, and son of Howard Zinn the author of “A People’s Study of the United States” seriously, look this guy up. He’s actually so cool.) studied with several prominent Buddhist teachers.

Although mindfulness has deep roots in Buddhism, it is not reserved only for the religious and depressed. Mindfulness is a practice for everyone, of all ages and minds. It is simply being aware of your present state and surroundings without applying judgment or a need to change things. You can do it wherever, whenever. Even right now.

As you read this article, take a moment to notice where you are. What do you see? Are you inside a room? What’s in that room? You, of course, but what else? A couch, a bed, a chair? Do you have company? A friend, a lover, a dog? Maybe there is a stack of books beside you, or a fresh plate of food. What do you hear? The buzz of a fan, the creak of wood while someone walks, the roar of a train. And what else do you notice? What do you smell? Take it all in.

Now, take a moment to think about yourself. How are you breathing? Are you feeling wired or restful? Worried or relaxed? Don’t try to change how you feel. Just observe it. What about the inside of your body? Can you feel your heart beat? Your lungs, as they expand and contract? Is there any soreness or pain? Where? Focus your attention on the parts of your body that are currently in contact with something. Are you on your phone? How do your fingers feel? Lean back if you are sitting. How does that feel?

Breathe in, breathe out. That’s all there is to it. Being present is important. In this day and age, where we are constantly overstimulated and stressed, we have to remind ourselves to slow down. To smell the roses, to see them, and to touch the soft petals.

• Meaning.

  • Life is a race with a finish line you can’t see. In order to run your best, you have to believe that there’s something at the end. You have to know that all the blood, sweat, and tears amount to something. You need a reason to run. For Christians, that finish line is Heaven, for others, it’s the legacy they leave behind and the knowledge that the race is going to be slightly easier for someone else, because it was hard for them. For a long time, I felt like there would be nothing at my finish line.

I have a wonderful family with parents who always provide. I have an amazing boyfriend tells me he loves me at least once, everyday. I have the world’s sweetest chihuahua who never wants to leave my side. So why do I feel lonely and upset all the time? Answer: I’m sick.

That’s not something to be embarrassed or ashamed about, but sometimes, I am. Mental illness is often treated in a completely different respect than physical illness. Imagine someone told their friend they had developed osteoporosis, and one of the first things they said was,

“Well. You don’t look sick. You don’t act like it either. Just the other day you were running and jumping around, but now you’re saying your bones are weakening? How come you could run and jump then? Are you just pretending for sympathy and attention? I broke a bone once and then it healed just fine. You’re totally fine.”

This is how some people react to depression and anxiety, and that scared me into having panic attacks in the closet, and lying to anyone who asked. Early on in life, I established that the way I felt was less important than the way everyone else feels. But I’ve slowly chipped away at that old way of thinking. Not in an “I’m the only person on earth who does matter” type of way, but in an “I’m the only person on earth who will ever know exactly how I feel” kinda way.

Nobody knows my mind. The intrusive thoughts that crawl into my head like a roach when the lights are off. The moments I have to remind myself of what is real (myself and my surroundings) and what is not (the onslaught of ways I could be hurt or sad at any given moment). Who cares what anyone else thinks about me?

At my finish line, all I want is a sign that says, “I’m proud of you.”

My life’s meaning isn’t something profound or impressive. The reason I’m running is because I want to be able to look back, and be proud of the race I ran. I feel like that’s all anyone can hope for. That at the end of their life, they’re still proud of themselves. It might not sound like much, but recognizing that end goal has given my life meaning.

Every day is an opportunity to make my future self proud. So on the days I want to stay in bed until I fall back asleep, even though it feels like I’m paralyzed, I have to get up. I have to do at least one thing that would make tomorrow me proud. Whether that’s just taking care of myself or checking off all the items on a to-do list, it makes it all feel so much more important.

Maybe it’s not impressive to anyone else that I brushed my teeth today, that I started a book I’ve waited months to read, that I finished a Substack article after a nearly three month hiatus. Tomorrow me is very proud of me today.

And that means enough.

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Thanks for reading Rose Reads&Writes! If you’re hungry for more, subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. And if you’re already a subscriber, let me know what your favorite snack is, because I’m curious.

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Hello, Readers&Writers!

A little bit about me: My name is Rose Rodriguez, and I am an aspiring author working on my debut novel. If you’re interested in following my journey or are just another Reader/Writer who wants to find a community on Substack, join my chat!

If you want to support me on my journey…

AND you are feeling generous, there is a “buy me a bookmark” button at the bottom of this post. I don’t want to use paid subscriptions because I like my writing to be free and accessible, but I am interested in using Substack to help fund my first novel. These donations are $1 (hence, buy me a bookmark), so I want to emphasize that anything helps, and I am by no means asking for large donations, nor am I looking to make money off of you guys. Thanks for the support!

buy me a bookmark

If you…

Don’t talk to your childhood friends anymore,

Feel behind in life,

Worry that being unemployed and living with your parents at twenty-two means you’re a loser,

This one is for you.

Hey Readers/Writers, it’s been a minute…

Updates on my life since I last published:

• I graduated from college! Still doesn’t feel real, but I did.

• I started the process of moving back into my parents’ house.

• I’m dedicating the year to writing.

In hindsight, these things were inevitable, but each point still surprised me. If you’d asked me three months ago if I would finish college, my answer would have been a resounding no. If you’d asked me three years ago if I would ever move back to the small town I grew up in, it would have been hell no. But if you’d told me thirteen years ago that I was trying to publish a book, nine-year-old me would have opened her little brown eyes as wide as she could and exclaimed, no way.

In recent years, I’ve had the privilege (and the horror) of seeing my childhood friends get married, have kids, and start successful careers. All amazing, exciting, gratifying experiences, and I’m happy for them all. I am. But I was born bitter. So, whenever I saw that someone else was engaged, or pregnant, or promoted, I couldn’t help but bite the inside of my cheek while I smiled, and told them congratulations. And I mean that figuratively, because I haven’t talked to any of them in years.

Growing up in an ultra-religious and conservative community means that when you find yourself enjoying the things you once called sacrilegious, you lose all of your friends. You lose your sense of self, too. But that’s a topic for another time.

It started slow, and then came all at once.

My senior year of high school was strange. Girls I had known since we were toddlers had formed new friend groups at their school, and I stopped talking to them entirely. It wasn’t a conscious decision, at first. But you can only run into someone at H-E-B so many times without saying hi before you start to avoid their gaze.

Then, before I knew it, I moved five hours away for college, and most of them left town too. I can’t even remember the last conversation I had with any of them. The year ended, we went home for summer break, and I tried to pretend I didn’t recognize them in public. So it went… Year. After year. After year.

All of a sudden, I was graduating, and couldn’t come up with more than ten people to send announcements to. (Ten, including myself, my mom, and my boyfriend’s parents). It was like waking up and realizing that the plants in your bedroom you forgot to water yesterday had died years ago. There was no one from childhood left. Save, for my half-cousin, she’s a cactus, in all senses of the word. She can survive a drought or two.

But the rest? Strangers to me. And I think that’s why it hurt more to see their success. I wanted to be a part of it, but I’m not. It felt like everyone in my hometown got the same rulebook, with instructions for how to live, maintain a community, and appear happy, all the while. Then I thought, they did. The Bible. All of their life choices revolved around god’s word. So, it’s no wonder that I felt behind as an agnostic.

Although it had more to do with self-judgment and a consternation of insignificance, I latched onto that thought. It allowed my resentment to grow with every engagement done with a scripture in hand. Encouraged my cyclical detestation like it was my religion whenever I saw their posts about praying for a gender-specific baby. That’s why I had to delete Instagram for a while. It was helping me be a hater.

Looking at others’ life choices with contempt makes me more depressed.

I don’t want to be a hater. I don’t. I’d much rather celebrate people’s accomplishments (what they call “blessings.”) And not feel that ugly, jealous feeling of indignation you get when you criticize something another version of you would have died for.

Because for a long time, that’s what I saw as success. Marriage, babies, a steady job. The works. Seeing someone else (more like everyone else) achieve those things so early is difficult for me. Already, I’m fighting to accept that moving back home isn’t a failure; it’s my future. A future where I can solely live off of writing. And that starts with free rent. I’m lucky to even have parents who 1. can still support me, and 2. still want to.

But I can’t deny how much it hurts to drive the same streets as my former best friends who also happened to marry my old crushes. To frequent the same grocery stores in search of slime with my sixteen-year-old sister, while they shop for formula. To exist, so close to where they do, in such a different place. However, I’m learning to embrace that pain.

Curiosity doesn’t kill the cat; comparison does.

The key to my hometown happiness is to accept the discomfort of being divergent. First, by recognizing that yes, most lives here are different than mine. Then, by acknowledging that it’s okay. If everyone in the world got married at eighteen, I can’t even imagine what that would be like. And if everyone wanted to move away, chase a creative career, and then come back to crash at their parents’, I know the world would be a worse place.

Because human beings are unique, someone’s peak is another’s rock bottom. It’s all a matter of perspective. And from my perspective, they seem happy. Not because they’re all living the same life (you never know what’s going on beyond their filtered posts anyway), but because they are doing what they want to do.

I’ve always been different from my old friends. I never could subscribe to the anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric we grew up on. I never wanted to believe that masturbation was as immoral as adultery. I never truly felt like God was telling me, directly, what his plans were for me. It was inevitable that I would be atypical as an adult, too.

I used to look at my life as a line moving parallel to my friends, until senior year, when I stopped following the same path. But now, I see that it has always been perpendicular. How can I compare two lines running in two different directions? I can’t, and I shouldn’t. The reality of the universe is that no two lives will ever be the same, and I will never find a life similar enough to mine to compare it to.

You’re more fulfilled and carefree when you allow yourself to simply exist.

I’ve learned that in order to be the best, least hateful version of myself, I need to just exist. I need to stop hiding from my childhood friends in grocery stores, I need to embrace the extraordinary and fortunate opportunity I have to spend the year freelance writing, instead of being employed, and I need to focus on the people who are still in my life. I’m surrounded by encouraging, steadfast, and inspiring individuals who love me, support me, and remind me that life looks different to everyone.

So, instead of avoiding old playmates like the plague, pay attention to the things that make you happy. Follow the dreams that make your heart beat like a drum. Text your childhood friends and tell them you’re glad they made a life for themselves. And then keep making yours.

It’s all I can try to do while I’m home.

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Thanks for reading Rose Reads&Writes! If you’re hungry for more, subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. And if you’re already a subscriber, let me know what your favorite food is, because we stay fed over here.

Leave a comment

Hello, Readers&Writers!

A little bit about me: My name is Rose Rodriguez, and I am an aspiring author working on my debut novel. If you’re interested in following my journey or are just another Reader/Writer who wants to find a community on Substack, join my chat!

If you want to support me on my journey…

AND you are feeling generous, there is a “buy me a bookmark” button at the bottom of this post. I don’t want to use paid subscriptions because I like my writing to be free and accessible, but I am interested in using Substack to help fund my first novel. These donations are $1 (hence, buy me a bookmark), so I want to emphasize that anything helps, and I am by no means asking for large donations, nor am I looking to make money off of you guys. Thanks for the support!

buy me a bookmark!

The basics…

I’m going to walk you through my process of building one of my main characters for my debut novel! For reference, this is the template I made. I update it as I write to help myself keep track of how I’ve described their attributes and actions.

The easiest way for me to come up with a unique individual is by starting with their zodiac sign. So, I pick a birthday based on the qualities that fit best into my story, and then fill in the template accordingly.

For my first main character, Noa, I knew I wanted someone who was witty, adaptable, and curious. I chose a Gemini. Now, obviously, I wasn’t shackled to only Gemini personality traits, but I tried to stay within those boundaries because it helps to produce a more realistic person instead of falling into the trap of making someone with only positive or negative dispositions.

When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature. —Ernest Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon

For my second main character, I wanted someone who would generate conflict with Noa, so I looked up “Who do Geminis not get along with?” and began my search. When I found one that fit the description, I filled in the template for her, too.

Just like that, in the span of about an hour, I had two characters that I understood. I knew how they acted, what they liked, and didn’t, and of course, I knew their birthdays.

The next step was figuring out what they looked like. And I know this is dishonorable, but I’m sorry to say, I used AI. There’s no excuse, it’s just convenient. In case anyone does want to know what form I used it’s Canva’s Dream Lab. I prompted it with the features I’d already decided on, and then let it come up with something.

It helped me to visualize different people, and Canva’s AI did a decent job of making them look (somewhat) realistic. Another way to do this would be to look up actors/actresses instead of using AI. And I’m a hypocrite to say this, but that would be a more ethical way of doing it. AI is bad for the environment, and whenever we can, we should avoid it.

With that said, here is how she looks…

After I’ve figured out how they look and act, I move on to their narrative. If anyone wants, I can break this part of the template down and explain what I mean by some of the terms. But the main idea is to figure out how their past and experiences shape their future. Aka, explaining why my characters make bad decisions, and how/if they’ll grow from it.

And that’s pretty much it! I’m a plotter through and through. It’s so much easier for me to write when I feel like I already know the person I’m writing about. I don’t fill this out as in-depth for minor/secondary characters, but it’s nice to have the template for them too anyway.

Why it matters…

The characters are the true heart and soul of any good novel. Even the most interesting plot won’t be enticing enough if you fail to make the readers care about the people who experience it.

Here is a quote from another far better writer than I who agrees with this sentiment.

Plot is no more than footprints left in the snow after your characters have run by on their way to incredible destinations. —Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing

Make your readers care.

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Thanks for reading Rose Reads&Writes! If you’re hungry for more, subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. And if you’re already a subscriber, let me know what you’re going to have for lunch later, because we stay fed over here.

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Hello, Readers&Writers!

A little bit about me: My name is Rose Rodriguez, and I am an aspiring author working on my debut novel. If you’re interested in following my journey or are just another Reader/Writer who wants to find a community on Substack, join my chat!

If you want to support me on my journey…

AND you are feeling generous, there is a “buy me a bookmark” button at the bottom of this post. I don’t want to use paid subscriptions because I like my writing to be free and accessible, but I am interested in using Substack to help fund my first novel. These donations are $1 (hence, buy me a bookmark), so I want to emphasize that anything helps, and I am by no means asking for large donations, nor am I looking to make money off of you guys. Thanks for the support!

buy me a bookmark

These are not in chronological order.

TW: eating disorders, teenage angst

Starting off strong, we have a poem that I wrote when I was sixteen. For context, I’m twenty-two now, and I’ve been agnostic for the past four years, but I was raised in a Christian household.

I was a very insecure pre-teen and teenager. I also struggled, growing up, with the fact that I am Hispanic. I didn’t like any feature that made me different than my white friends. (Such as my “crooked” nose). I love my face now, but it’s sad to remember how I used to cry whenever I looked at myself for too long in the mirror.

Next, we have an unfinished (whatever this is) from five years ago.

It’s true, I hadn’t held hands with a boy yet, but I did have this really weird, toxic, long-distance situationship that started when I was fifteen and only truly ended right before I started dating my current boyfriend at eighteen.

I was also the girl who gave “relationship advice” to the guys she liked who were dating other girls. Ugh, cringe, I know, but my advice was always pretty good. Anyway, it honestly skewed my view of love and specifically boys in love.

I only ever heard male complaints about relationships, and was constantly getting rejected, so I developed this depressing tendency to cater to the desires of males in my life because I thought that was the only way to maintain a relationship with them: by keeping the boy happy.

Other than situationship guy, no one had ever called me pretty or said that they liked me before. I was vulnerable, he was emotionally abusive, it’s a story for another post. By the time we broke up for the last time, though (it was a frequent occurrence despite us only being together two years), I’m glad I finally realized I deserved better. I started dating my now-boyfriend at the end of the same year I wrote that :)

Okay, the next one is equally dark and hilarious, I feel. And I’m surprised how it still kind of makes my stomach turn to acknowledge this, but I used to be bulimic. I never went to the doctor or anything, and my parents to this day do not know about it, but I used to refrain from eating for as long as I could manage, inevitably give in to my starvation and stuff myself, and then I would do whatever I could, to dispel everything from my body. It was a dark time. I was always irritated, sad, anxious, tired, or confused because my little sixteen-year-old brain was not getting the nutrients it needed.

If I’m remembering things correctly, this excerpt was used in a TikTok (back when we still had to use paper for captions—ew, that makes me feel old for some reason). But I made the text small enough that you couldn’t decipher it. So, funny enough, these words were never actually meant to be shared (despite the “if you’re still reading…” bit). At that point in my life, I was able to recognize something was wrong with me, but I thought that if I just never admitted it, it didn’t exist. I also thought that because my body never got “too skinny,” it meant I wasn’t allowed to say I had a problem.

Luckily, I am in a much better place now in regards to my relationship with food, and I couldn’t be more thankful for the people in my life who have talked with me, encouraged me, and still hold me accountable to my goals today.

I want to call slight attention to the fact that eating disorders are not one-size-fits-all. And if you feel like something is wrong, it probably is. There is nothing normal about looking at food with an all-or-nothing mentality, and life is so much better when you allow yourself clarity. Ask for help, because I didn’t, and I wish I had.

To end things off, we have (a part) of a short story/novel? I have no idea why/who I was writing this for, but the whole thing is only four and a half pages (I never finished) and I might post it on here, just as a “hey look at what I wrote when I was 16” haha post because it’s bad. It is. But regardless, I wanted to end with this selected paragraph because I think it sums this post up pretty well.

Ah, a good old self-insert. “Brooke” is me, and “Carter” is every guy I had ever liked up until this point. My framework for a loving relationship was fractured, and you can tell because of “as bad as things got, she never stopped caring for…” that is how I saw love. Caring for someone when they couldn’t care less about you. And that is also how I saw my life at the time: torture.

These were all so wild to me, because I never realized how I’ve always used writing as an outlet until reading these. They might seem innocuous to anyone who doesn’t know my past, but I was pouring my heart out in these stupid little paragraphs for no one to see.

The moral of the story is, I’ve always been this dark, messy, troubled person, and I’ve also always used writing to explore those aspects of myself.

I mean, I essentially wrote a poem about hating myself, even though I would have never said I had depression. I wrote about a girl who was bulimic and being mistreated by those around her, but refused to acknowledge how that was literally me.

I’m just deciding to be more open about it this time.

So yeah, Noa will probably have some depressive tendencies that look a little too much like my own, and yeah, Anna’s inner monologue might occasionally sound like things I told myself when I was sixteen and afraid of giving myself strength. But I suppose that’s why I’ve always written. To say the things I’m too afraid to admit to myself.

(Sidenote: neither Noa nor Anna are exactly like me as a person, but it would be impossible not to infuse some of myself into them.)

This is my most vulnerable post to date, and we will see how long it can stay until I get self-conscious and lock it back up. This is essentially exposure therapy for me, but if I want to write real things, I need to be able to talk about them too.

Until next time, happy reading & writing <3

So… this is awkward.

To rip the band-aid right off, I’m scrapping ~25k words worth of drafting, ~5k words worth of outlining, and ~4 months worth of daydreaming—to start over with scratch—and I couldn’t be more ecstatic.

But I wasn’t at first.

This account of mine is for readers & writers, from a reader & writer, and my priority is to be candid and sincere with the words I jot down here. So, it would be a complete, bald-faced lie to claim that when I first thought about starting over, I didn’t want to curl up into the fetal position, rip a chunk of hair out, and wail myself to sleep. Because I did.

The immediate thoughts that flooded my cynical mind were:

You are a failure. You couldn’t write the book you’ve been working on for four months, so why would you be able to write something else? You’re never going to become an author. People will think you are a terrible writer and unsubscribe from you, because who would want to read anything from a fiction writer who can’t even write fiction? Your mom is going to think you should have committed harder to becoming a teacher instead of wasting time writing.

It was overwhelming. And it might seem silly to some, but it’s also been a mournful experience. It’s (maybe) no secret that I struggle with depression, and to sum it up, the past four years at my college have been lonely, disparaging, and belittling. I wasn’t just in a dark place; when I started writing again, I was living as a shadow.

My old WIP brought me (at least a little bit) out of that gloom. And so whenever things got too sad or scary, I hid in that story. When I felt that things in my real life were out of my control, I would think about my characters and how to fix their problems instead.

I think I never gave it the chance to be weird, or messy, or eerie, or real, because it was my safe space. Despite the heavy themes I wanted to explore, I didn’t even like for my characters to swear. It was a complete contradiction to itself.

Why I decided to move on.

Saying goodbye to that story was pretty hard. And no, I don’t think I’ll ever stop typing the random thoughts that pop into my head about it into my notes folder titled TG. But it’s time for something different. Something fresh.

The OG idea was always convoluted, and I’m not ready for a dystopia.

You’d think I would have realized this sooner, but constantly having to restart because of plot holes means there’s something fundamentally wrong with the plot. Instead, I kept on writing even though I knew I hadn’t the slightest idea of how it would end. Or what the middle would be like…

I also had mediocre world-building. Let’s be real for a second. To have a fully developed world in a dystopia, you need to have a thorough comprehension of the different types of governments and militaries. I don’t.

I’m not saying I’m oblivious to politics, or that I failed my Government class in high school (I actually got an A, thank you very much), but I am saying that there are a lot of things I am still ignorant of.

Not to mention the added pressure of creating cultures, traditions, places, people groups, dialects, class systems, etc, too much for my debut novel. Mad respect to everyone else.

I also took advice from my community of writers.

Call me crazy, but Substack has kind of changed my life. Getting granted access to real people who are going through the same things I am has completely altered my outlook on becoming an author, and I cannot thank you guys enough, because y’all have truly been so kind, so genuine, and so supportive.

And helpful. Y’all have been more helpful than you know. I’m about to shout out some specific comments that enticed me into starting over, but to every single person who has subscribed to me, commented their support, or even just taken a quick peek at my writing, I appreciate you.

These feel so interesting for me to look back on (I know these are only from last week, just humor me), because you can see how I was already starting to feel like it was time to cut ties with WIP1, and how my community encouraged me to keep writing through the change. , those words came to me at exactly the right time.

There are so many other people who have been supportive, encouraging, and helpful, it would be impossible to name everyone. But you know who you are <3

I organically came up with something new, and I just think it’s better.

Talk about accepting my dreams as realities (shameless plug, in case you’re new here), I'm making a nightmare my muse. Little did I know, when I fell asleep at three a.m. after having a heart-to-heart with my younger sister, that lying atop my mattress on my childhood bedroom floor, I would wake up reeling over the strangest scenes I had ever experienced.

Remembering how some people on Substack had started their stories from dreams (cough, cough, ), I quickly jotted down my scrambled thoughts into my affectionately titled iPhone notes folder, “Story?” And then, of course, I posted on Substack about it.

Without further ado, my new WIP.

I definitely made the right decision, jumping boat. I’m constantly itching to write, and this one actually makes sense (for the most part). It’s not going to have a profound anti-establishment message about the importance of art and how propaganda is used (not every book needs to, Rose), but it will hopefully still be both deep and meaningful.

What kind of novel am I writing?

Consider this post my soft-launch to becoming a Thriller/Horror writer. I know I said I loved Dystopia, I still do, but I’m going to alter my focus. Which means, the stories from college I’ve been teasing will be rewritten to fit those genres to enhance my debut novel.

One thing I learned from reading through some of the old Google Docs from when I was sixteen is that I have a much stronger voice in third person than I do in first. I don’t know why, but I’m weaker when I’m using “I.” So, unlike my last WIP, this one is written in third-person limited narration. And… it will have dual POV! I’m ecstatic that I’ll get to explore these two characters on a deeper level, and they both have such unique voices and inner monologues.

What can I tell you about it?

I have a blurb! Crazy, I know. Though I don’t want to give away too much, and you never know what might change as I go on (it has only been a week), I am pretty confident in giving y’all these few, vague details for now…

Noa is a troubled, Tahitian writer who hasn’t been home in ten years.

Anna is a grieving American chef full of secrets.

Both accept hospitality positions at a magnificent Villa on a remote island off the coast of France, and are given the same three objectives.

1. Keep the house clean.

2. Keep the guests content.

3. Keep the neighbors from coming inside.

That’s it! I hope it piqued your interest, because I’ll be working on this for a while.

So, what am I doing different, to increase my likelihood of finishing this one?

Right off the bat, my current WIP has been an entirely different experience. I have more knowledge about my writing style. I’ve learned how to plot and create outlines. And, this story is just flowing. I sit down, and it’s like I intuitively know what scene should go where, why a character would or wouldn’t do a certain thing, and how the imagery in my writing contributes to my depictions of how the characters view the world.

Guys, I feel like a writer.

I’m also writing what I know.

I’ll be honest, whenever I heard the writing advice to “write what you know,” I thought it was in a broader, more general sense. But when I started to get specific about what I really know, I realized there is a lot I have to say about the things I truly understand.

Such as: having trouble writing and suppressing your emotions with food. My two main characters feel like they have real depth already, because I’m writing from a place of experience.

I’m plotting, and writing, better.

You might assume that between one first-person, present-tense narration and two third-person, past-tense narrations, the latter would be more difficult. Surprisingly, it hasn’t been. Believe it or not, Little Miss Outline Draft #7 in four months has created her first full outline for this WIP. And I love it, I know I’ll probably have to edit it at some point, but right now I’m just basking in the glory of having a complete story for once.

Creating it was super fun too. I made an outline based on the 28-chapter method (you can find it here), added in the basic story plots for a Thriller novel, and then started two different outlines for each of my main characters.

Because the narration is going to switch every other chapter, I wanted to make sure that the story doesn’t stall and that the plot is still cohesive. To do this, I had three tabs open on my laptop. On the right, I had Noa’s perspective, on the left, I had Anna’s perspective, and in the middle, I had the uninterrupted narrative perspective of what was happening to the women.

Finally, I’m taking off spell check and saying goodbye to Grammarly.

I wish I could remember where I saw this, but I don’t, so anyway, I saw somewhere that one of the reasons it takes longer to write on a laptop than by hand is because it’s too easy to edit. You can fix phrases with a few simple clicks, and the mistakes are even highlighted for you, underlined in red, so that you can see where you have a problem.

Well, no more. I’m throwing caution to the wind and hoping that the editing phase saves me. My current rough draft has misspelled words, improper punctuation, and zero AI-powered Grammarly suggestions. It’s messy, but it’s me.

Possible trigger warnings for the future.

Look, I’m going to be writing/reading a lot of horror and psychological thrillers. My content is going to get dark, gory, and depressing at times. If that is something that you aren’t comfortable with, I lightly suggest that you unfollow/unsubscribe now.

I want my profile to always be something that leaves you with joy. Whether that’s from feeling the solace of another laboring soul, or getting a chill sent up your spine. I want the lasting impression to make you want to come back, not hide away.

To close this out…

Thank you. Truly, thank you. I can honestly say that I don’t know if I would have kept going after giving up on my first idea if I hadn’t gotten the support, encouragement, and advice from y’all on Substack. I don’t know what my next posts will look like (suggestions, anyone?) because I had planned them around my old WIP, lol. But I’ll come up with something (sidenote: this is my fourth week posting in a row, and I’m so proud of myself).

When I tried to describe to my boyfriend what it felt like to start writing this current story, I said something along the lines of,

“It’s like having butterflies, but between my ribs.”

Happy reading and writing, everyone <3

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Thanks for reading Rose Reads&Writes! If you’re hungry for more, subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. And if you’re already a subscriber, let me know what you’re going to have for dinner tonight, because we stay fed over here.

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Hello, Readers&Writers!

A little bit about me: My name is Rose Rodriguez, and I am a Dystopian writer an aspiring author working on my debut novel. If you’re interested in following my journey or are just another Reader/Writer who wants to find a community on Substack, join my chat!

If you want to support me on my journey…

AND you are feeling generous, there is a “buy me a bookmark” button at the bottom of this post. I don’t want to use paid subscriptions because I like my writing to be free and accessible, but I am interested in using Substack to help fund my first novel. These donations are $1 (hence, buy me a bookmark), so I want to emphasize that anything helps, and I am by no means asking for large donations, nor am I looking to make money off of you guys. Thanks for the support!

buy me a bookmark

You’re here, so you’ve probably read my spiel.

“My name is Rose Rodriguez, and I am writing a Dystopian novel.”

It gives you all the information right there. Who I am, and what I’m doing.

But what you still don’t know… is how I’m writing my novel.

The beginning…

Circa 2024, I had just experienced SJM’s A Court of Thorns and Roses, and I was on a high. It had been years since I’d felt that kind of connection to the characters, story, and setting in a book (I also had just discovered the magic of Graphic Audio), and so I came up with the idea for my own Fantasy novel.

Spoiler alert: this idea was atrociously uncreative, and I abandoned it after two weeks with only a poorly drawn map to show for it. I had not even written a single word.

My next idea came a few months later when I read Alienated by Melissa Landers, after I received it for Christmas in a “Blind Date Book” package—ya know, the ones where they wrap the book in brown paper and then write a couple of bullet points on it like:

• Grumpy x Sunshine

• Enemies to Lovers

• Sci-Fi Setting

It was one of those.

Needless to say, I do not like that book very much at all. Sorry, Melissa Landers…

In fact, I didn’t like it so much that it inspired me to try writing again. I felt genuinely compelled to create something because I was so disappointed in the FMC. I wanted to read a book where the main girl didn’t swoon over handsome features and accept her partner having the emotional maturity of a toddler. I wanted to read a book where the main girl was strong and smart and most of all, kind. I wanted to read a book where the FMC wasn’t snarky or sassy, but still had emotional depth and wasn’t a pushover. So, I started trying to write it.

I picked up my old fantasy map and started plotting when all I had to begin with, was a setting, some characters, and one sentence of a story. Believe it or not, this was not enough for me to go on. Everything I wrote felt like it had the emotional depth of a spilled Coke can. Yes, it was that bad.

Filled with the disappointment of trying thirteen times (I just counted, those drafts are all still on a Google Doc) to write a single first chapter, I gave up again.

Until a few weeks later… when I read Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros. Now, say what you will about the dragon smut book, I get that it’s not for everyone, but it was for me. I loved it.

Once again, I found myself drawn right into an author’s world and connected to her imagined characters. It was an addictive feeling. I swallowed Fourth Wing whole and moved on to Iron Flame, but a part of me felt left in limbo. I couldn’t let go of my desire to immerse myself in a world of my own.

And I guess the third time is the charm, because I started my debut novel in January, and I’m still going strong.

The Brainstorming Phase…

There were a few things I did differently on this third try.

For starters, I actually researched how to write a book. I read essays and articles, and books (groundbreaking, I know) that claimed to have the secret to starting and finishing a novel. And then I began to watch videos that other writers had made about their process.

To say a little, that helped a lot. After playing around with a couple of different methods, I decided to plot my story using Kat O’Keefe’s 27 Chapter Method (“The 3 Act Block 27 Chapter Method” for any freaks who want to get super specific). I created this flyer on Canva for anyone who is interested in a reference, and I’m also sharing a link to her first video in the “How to Build a Book” series because she has been an amazing resource for me thus far!

"HOW TO BUILD A BOOK..." @Katytastic on YouTube

The Outlining Phase…

Once I settled on a method for telling my story, I began outlining my debut novel.

For that first outline, I went all out. I came up with everything down to the last chapter, and began to color-code my outline based on five narrative threads I wanted to follow throughout its development.

I got to Chapter Four before I realized how silly I was being. I was going to waste so much time if I had already planned out the story exactly to the tee and then found a plot hole that changed everything while writing (which happened). But, after fixing the plot hole, I started on Outline #2 and fell into the same trap. Delusional, and assured my story was already foolproof, I went ahead and started writing again, but forced myself to stay within the confines of the outline. A plot hole can’t organically form if the story doesn’t.

This created a very juvenile first chapter. I also hate to admit it, but my FMC was totally a self-insert at the beginning (I mean, she worked at a bar that was exactly like the one I spent my summer serving up drinks in). It was unreadable.

And it wasn’t until I came up with some solid themes for my book, that I was able to develop it in a way that made things seem real. Instead of writing a a book that only I would ever want to read, I began to think about what I would want to say, if someone else did read it. I locked down on three themes: love, strength in pacifism, and art being used as a tool to inspire social change, and when I realized they didn’t fit the fantasy genre anymore, I began to look at Dystopias.

Over the last two months, I have redone my outline four more times. Each one evolving from writing (and more often than not, scrapping) 5k-15k words of the first chapter until I developed not just my writing voice, but Veanessa’s inner monologue.

Now, I officially have Outline #6! And I hope she at least carries me through the A-Plot of Part Two. But you never know, I’m learning to be flexible. (I want to note that only I’m only showing Act One because that is all I have actually drafted.)

With Outline #6, I’ve begun drafting my first “non-rewriting” draft. Which means, I’m at a place where in order to progress, I need to finish writing Part One.

I am not going to touch that first chapter again until I’m doing my first rewrite.

But the second through sixth chapters? They became essentially unusable because I’ve changed once again how I want characters to be introduced, how I want the mystery to unfold, and how I want my themes to show.

So although I’ve technically been working on Part One for (what seems to me) a long time, I only now feel confident in saying that I have my first chapter of my first draft. Knowing full well she might be completely destroyed when I do my first read-through after drafting the entire book.

At first, I felt bad about my “lack of progress” and was frustrated that I kept rewriting when every piece of advice I’d heard said to just keep going, and fix things later. But I’ve discovered that my mind doesn’t work like that.

This is my first time having to come up with my own characters, plot, plot twists, world, power systems/uses, etc… so I’m just going to keep rewriting until I find something that sticks. It doesn’t have to be perfect (it definitely won’t be) but it needs to be something that I can build the rest of the story off of. Otherwise? I’ll just be writing random chapters that have nothing to do with each other.

The Writing Phase…

It’s actually really hard to write a book. Who knew?

If you’ve been keeping up with my WIP Wednesday notes, you know that as of right now, I’m sitting on 23k words of “first draft” (I’ve probably wrote AT LEAST another 25k words while outlining that became completely unusable). But what you probably didn’t know, is that I’m still taking the pieces of what I’ve written, and reworking them so that they fit. Meaning, that out of that 23k, I really only have about 10k words that I’m truly ready to move on from.

Throughout this process, I have learned that I am not someone who can just write. My best, and most usable work comes from me having deeply and thoroughly explored my plot before I commit to any aspect of it. So, I like to look up pictures of the settings I try to portray and I make all of my OCs go through several rounds of makowa pic crew experimentation until I create a person who looks right. And yes, I rewrite my first chapters until they start to make sense.

It’s been a slow process, but I know I’m doing this the right way, because I haven’t stopped writing yet. And that’s what really matters. Not what method I use, or how many Outlines I write, or how many words I want to have written down in a week. It just matters that I keep going.

So, I will :)

A Grain of Salt to Leave You All With

I have not actually written and published a novel, so maybe you shouldn’t really be taking advice from me, although I do have (some) qualifications.

Such as: My almost Bachelor’s degree in English (May can’t get here any faster).

So I hope this was helpful. Maybe it gave you ideas of how to draft your novel, or this is encouraging because you’re finally seeing someone else who says yes to early re-writes, whatever. But definitely don’t look at this post and be discouraged just because I have a lot of old outlines and you’re still on your first (it probably means it’s a better outline than any of my first five). The writing process is going to be different for everyone, and it’s important to find what fits you best.

Happy Reading & Writing, everyone.

Subscribe now

Thanks for reading Rose Reads&Writes! If you’re hungry for more, subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. And if you’re already a subscriber, let me know what you had for lunch yesterday, because we stay fed over here.

Leave a comment

Hello, Readers&Writers!

A little bit about me: My name is Rose Rodriguez, and I am a Dystopian writer working on her first novel. If you’re interested in following my journey, or are just another Reader/Writer who wants to find a community on Substack, join my chat!

If you want to support me on my journey…

AND you are feeling generous, there is a “buy me a bookmark” button at the bottom of this post. I don’t want to use paid subscriptions because I like my writing to be free and accessible, but I am interested in using Substack to help fund my first novel. These donations are $1 (hence, buy me a bookmark), so I want to emphasize that anything helps, and I am by no means asking for large donations nor am I looking to make money off of you guys. Thanks for the support!

buy me a bookmark

I’m feeling sentimental.

I don’t know what it is. (Spoiler alert from a later Rose: it was my period, about to start). But I want to write a love letter. So, here it is. Written with Rodriguez flair.

Myles,

Bella begins her letters the same way every time. Addressed directly to him. Not Dear Myles, not To Myles. Just, Myles.

It started four years ago, with the very first one. She wanted to be something different. Just in case she wasn’t the first girl to ever give him one. She wanted to be something special. And if most girls started their letters with Dear or To, then that meant she should refrain.

There was a lot of thinking like this in the early stages of their relationship—where Bella would compete with imaginary ex-girlfriends and slews of pretend past lovers—to ensure she was something special to Myles.

Luckily, those thoughts evaporated in the heat of their love. It became impossible for her to deny that she wasn’t just something special to him. She was everything.

The way he treated her was abnormal. Like how a boy in a book would act toward the heroine. He jumped into ice-cold water when she joked about wanting to see him swim without a second thought. He planted kisses on her cheek when they sat together and watched movies, just because.

And that one time? The most matter-of-fact evidence that Myles was head over heels for her, too: the time she threw up in a sink at a party, and he scooped the chunky mess that wouldn’t go down the drain into the toilet with his bare hands, for her.

All irrefutable. He must truly love her. Not any more than she loves him, though, that just isn’t possible.

Because it’s more than those moments that come to mind immediately when she tries to put pen to paper and express herself. It’s all of the other things about him, that have nothing to do with her at all, but force her to love him back anyway.

Like the way his eyes shine when he smiles. The manner in which he talks to other women, with respect and acknowledgment. His gentleness. With everyone and everything.

It’s why she trusts him with her heart. Such a fragile thing it is. But if there’s one man up for the job, it’s the one who already cradles it in his arms.

Welcome to Rose Rambles & Whines!

This will be the place for me to put the writing that isn’t about my road to becoming an author or an analytical essay from college (coming soon, maybe?).

Less polished, more personal.

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A little bit about me: My name is Rose Rodriguez, and I am a Dystopian writer working on her first novel. If you’re interested in following my journey, or are just another Reader/Writer who wants to find a community on Substack, subscribe!

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Can everyone hear me okay in the back?

Yes? Awesome.

There’s something so thrilling about having an audience. (Says the girl who grew up in theatre). And I don’t mean the kind of intimate listeners you’d find at your local coffee shop’s poetry slam, or that one house in your hometown where all the high schoolers starting a band play at parties.

I’m talking; there are so many people looking at you, that you can’t decipher a single face. I’m talking; the farthest row is there, somewhere, but you can’t even see it. Call me dramatic; I’m talking Broadway.

Now, I realize that not everyone feels the same way I do. I know several people who would probably rather do anything else than speak in front of five strangers, much less five hundred. But I was born with something in my spirit that craves to perform.

She’s a hungry beast. And oh, she ate those eight years on the stage up. But I graduated high school four years ago, and it’s been since then that she’s starved.

For me, starting college meant saying goodbye to the stage. It meant pasting my show posters to the back of my childhood bedroom closet, driving away, and accepting that applause had become a thing of the past.

Until now.

Substack is feeding my starving performer spirit.

I’ve never been good at sharing the things I really care about with the people who feel like they know me. Belting show tunes for strangers? Easy. Singing seriously for just my boyfriend? Makes my throat wanna close up, simply thinking about it.

And that’s singing. Showing someone my writing is an entirely different story. Because my writing is even more exposing.

Strangers, on the other hand… they are a goldmine of an audience because they don’t know you already. They aren’t going to clap just because they love you, or they feel like they should be supportive—in fact, they’re typically the first to admit a person isn’t as good as they think they are.

But that’s precisely what I love about them.

Before Substack, I felt like I’d lost the opportunity to perform for people who didn’t know me. Even speaking up in my college classes felt akin to reading a diary entry out loud. Everything was too personal, because my classmates already knew me as a person.

To them, I’m not a performer, or an actor, or a writer. I’m another twenty-something student struggling to submit their assignments before 11:59pm and get participation credit. But to the internet? I’m nobody.

So why am I hating on the abyss analogy?

If your feed is anything like mine, you’ve probably seen multiple posts and notes about “shouting into the abyss,” or “screaming into the void.”

For some, it might be the perfect way to describe how it feels to throw your work out into the world for it to never be seen. And others? It’s the process of posting on Substack, only to receive two likes. A frustrating, discouraging feeling that corrupts creativity and steals motivation.

But I encourage you to look at things a different way. The Rose Rodriguez way, if you will.

Imagine you’re standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon.

The sun, searing the back of your neck. A little bead of sweat, sliding off your forehead as you lean over the edge, and peer into the chasm below.

Nothing. Nothing but rocks, and cactus, and the occasional evidence of life—but not the sort life that acknowledges you back.

Given the opportunity to perform for this chasm, this audience of nothing, how would you do?

Do you truly try your hardest? Do you sing polished and passionate? Do you write recklessly and true? Do you paint with care and creativity?

Or do you scream into it—why aren’t you clapping for me?

Now, imagine you’re walking onto a stage.

The spotlights warms your face, the microphone, squeaks, before you tap it three times, and begin to perform.

Nobody in this audience came to see you. In the same way, that nobody joined Substack just to read “Rose Reads&Writes”. They came to be entertained. They came to feel something.

So you have no choice, but to try your absolute hardest. You have no choice, but to perform for this audience as if they did come for you. You have no choice, but to try and make them feel.

When you’re finished, nobody claps. Nobody acknowledges that what you’ve just done is amazing, or ground-breaking, or good. They just sat and watched, silently, all the while.

But for some reason… you don’t even care.

It was never about the audience.

It was about the opportunity to try your hardest, and just be heard.

So be heard, but don’t wait for the applause to know someone likes what you’re doing.

Because in that audience, even though they didn’t clap for you, someone was holding onto your every word. They were counting the brushstrokes of your hand. They were humming along to your song.

It’s hard to feel like nobody is seeing or appreciating the art you’re giving the world. But I guarantee that if you keep it up, someone in that crowd is going to love you.

And do you know what the best thing about crowds is? The people in them, often return.

So, maybe the first crowd you perform to is entirely made up of strangers. But the second? You can’t help but notice some people came back for more.

Don’t pretend you’re shouting into an abyss.

You might say something you’ll regret.

Pretend you’re talking to a crowd.

And you’ll at least remember to end everything with a mic drop.

BOOM.

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Hello, Readers&Writers!

A little bit about me: My name is Rose Rodriguez, and I am a Dystopian writer working on her first novel. If you’re interested in following my journey, or are just another Reader/Writer who wants to find a community on Substack, join my chat!

If you want to support me on my journey…

I’ve decided to implement a “buy me a bookmark” on my posts. I don’t want to use paid subscriptions because I like my writing to be free and accessible, but I am interested in using Substack in the future to help fund my first novel.

IF you are feeling generous, I would absolutely appreciate anything, as it will be put into my savings for when I’ve completed writing. I am making these donations $1 (hence, buy me a bookmark), so I want to emphasize that anything helps, and I am by no means asking for large donations nor am I looking to make money off of you guys. Thanks for the support!

buy me a bookmark

Introductions are scary, so let’s forgo them and pretend you’ve known me forever.

Oh, there you are! So good to see you again. It’s been how long? Well no matter, it’s been too long. And how am I?

I’m struggling.

Struggling to finish my last semester of college. Struggling to complete my online Teacher Certification Course. Struggling to get out of bed still, some days.

But I have something to share!

I have finally started chasing my dreams. And I hear you, that might sound romantic—frivolous, even—but, it’s very rooted in reality. These are very tangible dreams I’m training to catch…

There’s nothing wrong with believing you can achieve something before you’re actually good enough to.

Alright, I’ll drop the act. My name is Isabella Rose Rodriguez, I am twenty-two years old, I am going to publish a dystopian novel, and yes, it’s nice to meet you too.

For the longest time, I have been flopping from aspiration to aspiration, hoping I’ll just instantly be good enough for something and bam! Professional chef. Pow! Famous actress. Boom! Super smart lawyer. It would be that easy.

But it hasn’t been. In fact, I’ve found that a lot of the things I like to do: cook, act, argue… They’re all things I enjoy, and have been told I have a talent for, but realistically, they’re not things I can just be good enough at to sustain a living.

So, am I saying you should adopt the same sense of delusion for your aspirations?

Yes! Because there’s something else that I love to do. Something that I enjoy, and have been told of my talent, but something I never thought I could do for the rest of my life.

Write.

I know I love to tell stories because I started coming up with them before I even realized what I was doing. The fantastical “dreams” I’d share with my sister were no more than the unchecked creative mind spillage of young Isabella Rose. And all those funny parodies for my friends—where I’d recycle our personage and attitudes for characters with different names (but the same first letters, of course) and plop us in a zombie apocalypse scenario or a Jurassic World situation—they were all times I was writing and didn’t realize it.

So, let me explain why I’ve changed my tune about becoming an author.

At first I was weary of admitting to myself, then my sister, then my boyfriend, and ultimately, my mom, that I wanted to pursue a writing career. I mean, you’ve seen the market right? How, why, or when will anyone care about the stories I have to tell? And I’m only twenty-two, I can’t have the experience to know anything intelligent to say yet!

Those are the kind of thoughts that keep you from chasing your dreams. So instead, I’ve been focusing on the reality of it all.

I am twenty-two years old, and have been writing my entire life. That means I have almost twenty years of experience! And those silly stories, even then, I always had an audience of at least one (thanks for that, gab). So, it follows that no matter what, there will be at least one person who wants read my work.

And when they do… That’s when I catch the sleeve of my dreams.

Accepting reality means acknowledging the fear.

The moment I allowed myself to truly believe I might one day publish a book was a scary one. And why shouldn’t it be? As a creative, it is a terrifying thought that I’m going to try and live off of my heart and soul. I am going to put them out there, and hope someone wants to buy a tiny piece.

God, that scares me so bad.

Because what if nobody buys? What if I tear open my heart and pour out my soul and nobody wants a piece? What if nobody reads the things I write? Or worse, what if they do? What if they buy everything and want a return?

What if? What if? What if?

What if they love it? And I’m able to change the way someone looks at the world? What if someone finds solace in my poured out soul and feels seen by my torn open heart?

I could go all day. Making up what ifs both good and bad. Goodness knows I love coming up with things. And it’s times like these, I’m thankful I don’t have to be the first one to experience fear of failure.

“The greatest mistake you can make in life is to be continually fearing you will make one.” —Elbert Hubbard.

Wow Hubbard, you got me there.

If I’m going to fear anything, it’s forgetting my dreams, not following them.

I’m a writer. Through and through. The author part… is yet to be claimed, but I’m on my way. So why not allow myself to live in my delusions in the meantime? Why not say “I am going to publish a book” instead of “it’s my dream to?” Why not start a Substack and post little notes when I barely have any subscribers (sidenote: love you guys), and why not tell them what I want to do with my life?

Every day I come on here and declare that me being an author is a reality and not just a dream is a day that reality gets closer. I feel like I can taste it now. Faint and far away, but so so sweet.

I hope I keep it up. Even though it seems impossible, and I’m still very afraid, I’d like to look back on this with the satisfaction of having been good enough.

For now, you reading this is me being able to catch the sleeve of my dreams. So thanks, hold on, and let me take you with me where they lead.

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