So, you’ve probably heard someone say that writing a book is like giving birth. I’m about to give you a really concrete example of how that’s painfully true. As in, PAINFULLY true.

For those of you who have been in labor before, you’ll likely recall the moments when your brain screamed I CANNOT DO THIS ANYMORE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES! For those of you who haven’t been in labor, trust me–you reach a point where the pain is so great that you can’t breathe, and you need to vomit, and you might pass out, and you would give absolutely anything to make it stop. Usually, that moment comes right before you find relief, whether that be in the form of birth or drugs. The feeling is similar to other moments in life involving great physical pain and change.

I went into labor intending not to have drugs. The first time, that didn’t work out. The second time, I somehow, miraculously, made it through natural childbrith (side note: there is nothing natural about childbirth. It’s foreign, and terrifying, and only happens for a split second in your life, so how can it feel commonplace? It may be designed by nature, but it’s not natural).

While there are many reasons as to why the two births differed, there was one detail that made a big difference for me the second time around. Prior to our son’s birth, my husband and I had made a deal: I could ask for drugs all I wanted. That’s right, I begged and pleaded for an epidural with every gasp. I cried. I offered my firstborn in trade. But no matter what I said or did, it was up to my husband to know when I really needed them.

As in, I begged for drugs, and no one listened to me. The midwife was down with this plan. The nurses, to be honest, were a little freaked out. But I tell you what, there was nothing like the freedom of ASKING. It was okay to ask for the drugs. It was okay to “give up.” It was okay to let everything fall away.

Years later, I find myself facing a very similar moment as I face revisions on my second MG novel. I’m in pain. The moment sucks. I don’t know how to get through it. I hate everything. I don’t know if I can do it. And every single cell in my body is screaming to GIVE UP. To ask for the drugs. So I’m doing it. And my wonderful, awesome husband is happy to listen to me tell him all of the reasons I’m giving up. All of the silly rationalizations. He’s smiling, nodding, agreeing–and not giving me the drugs.

We grow up believing that it is wrong to give up, that it’s some kind of mortal sin. But honestly, we never know what’s on the other side of giving up. With writing, letting go could lead to a subconscious breakthrough. One day, you give up. You go back to your life, your kids, keeping up with the laundry and cooking for a change–and a week later, you wake up with a spark in your chest. Just as with labor, the darkest moments are right before the light. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.

So today, I’m giving you permission to give up. To let go. Because you’re a writer, and sometimes you have to let the words go before they can find their way back to you.

Well, first of all, scifi covers a very broad spectrum of story types. According to Wiki:

Science fiction is a genre of fiction dealing with imaginative content such as futuristic settings, futuristic science and technology, space travel, parallel universes, extraterrestrial life, and paranormal abilities. Exploring the consequences of scientific innovations is one purpose of science fiction, making it a “literature of ideas”.[1] Science fiction has been used by authors as a device to discuss philosophical ideas such as identity, desire, morality, and social structure.

For me, scifi is about possibilities. What may happen, and what that might mean for us, as humans, as keepers of the earth, and as patrons of the universe. Scifi usually presents the audience with not only a new character, but a whole new world to digest. World-building is a critical element for scifi stories: without it, the world falls flat, but with too much of it, the story drowns.

For me, the key to telling a great scifi story is telling the STORY. Not telling about the WORLD. Take, for example, two recent scifi films, Oblivion and Elysium. Both offered far future Earths with starkly different worlds from our modern one. Both offered characters facing adversity within their world. But neither, in my opinion, provided a story that the audience really cared about. The question is, why?

In my humble opinion, each of these films tried to tell too many layers of story at once. They attempted to present both a big picture story as well as an interpersonal story, leaving the audience with little focus and not much connection. By contrast, films like The Matrix showed us a close-in view of a personal story in the first film, allowing us to peel back the layers of a brand new world slowly, in the context of personal struggle. This allows us to bond with the characters on a very deep level. The world is a backdrop. The character is the story.

Think about your story–what is your character’s perception of the world at the beginning? How does that perception change? How does their view of the world broaden? Bringing your audience in at eye level and slowly expanding the character’s world view is a great way to get us invested in both your character AND the world. Dumping a lot of information about your world keeps us from bonding with your character AND drains the world-level issues of their power.

Now, some stories work as trilogies, like The Matrix. But not all of us can plan to write three books. Sometimes you have to get it all done in one story. The Fifth Element is a fantastic example of scifi story that works on all story levels. The key, again, is progression. We open with a starkly different world, but what’s important is what’s happening to the characters in that world. Only as the characters discover the big picture story do we as the audience come to see it. We take the journey with them. That way, we care about them most, and secondarily their cause becomes our cause–by the end, we care about their world, too.

While I don’t write scifi (much), it remains one of my favorite genres to read and watch on film. As with every genre, it’s difficult to get scifi just right. Show me your incredible new world. Take me on an amazing adventure. Do it all through the lens of your character, and I will love them as well as your world.

Last week, I hit a wall. For the very first time ever, I got this awful sick feeling my stomach, and suddenly my draft that I’d been writing with glee turned terrifying. I knew what was supposed to happen next. I had the whole story outlined. But suddenly, I was filled with so much doubt that I freaked out–am I writing the wrong story? Is my plot original enough? Will anyone give a care about my character, or is he too boring?

Commence hair pulling.

And for the first time ever, crying. Real, actual tears over words. I know I might sound spoiled, but up until that moment, writing had only ever been fun (and slightly obsessive) for me. I’d had plenty of moments where I knew I was writing crap. That the story didn’t make sense, or the words were awkward, or whatever truth crossed my mind. But I’d always been able to forge ahead regardless. To brush off the question marks and write.

What changed?

Well, it’s taken me about a week to figure that out. First, I fired off pages to a CP, and then had lengthy discussions with my always-supportive agent, but I couldn’t seem to find peace. I was about 3/4 of the way through my manuscript, and I couldn’t decide if I should change the plot lines or not. Every alternate idea I worked through had potential, but didn’t grab me. In fact, with every new option I explored, I freaked out more, until I was in full-on writer distress.

This was a new thing for me, and bewildering, and shameful–why was I so stressed over writing? I mean, it’s just a stupid story, right? Just words on paper? Only it’s not just writing anymore–I have obligations to other people. I’m trying to get traditionally published. I have something to lose. And without realizing it, I’d let all of that pressure (most of it from myself) creep in and create doubt, until I couldn’t even remember how I came up with my story in the first place. As I sat in the car with my husband outside the train station Friday morning (cue dramatic music), crying over everything and feeling lost, I realized that I’d forgotten how I discovered my character in the first place–and in turn, how I create stories.

I’d forgotten MY PROCESS. *cue hallelujah chords*

Everyone has a unique process for discovering a story. For me, story creation involves striking on a wonderful character who keeps my attention and defining that individual’s character arc. This allows me to create a plot that suits the character’s growth over the course of the novel. My stories are what you’d call character-driven. In many ways, I work from back to front. And that’s how everything in the story ends up contributing to the character’s outcome, from theme to individual plot points.

In my zeal to force a new plot-line, something more interesting or unique, I’d forgotten that the solution also had to suit my character’s arc, and that’s why nothing seemed to fit. Once this thought occurred to me, I briefly revisited the theme, premise, and character arc for my story–and discovered something else about my first draft: it wasn’t terrible. It might not be right in the end, but I’m not at the end yet, and deciding before I finish is pure crazy.  That’s the other part of my process I’d forgotten: FINISH YOUR DRAFT.

It’s almost like I’d entirely forgotten that my previous books ever existed in draft form. And that they changed quite a bit over multiple drafts, and with multiple rounds of input. No first draft is perfect–that’s why it’s called a DRAFT. I’ve written a few books at this point. I should know this. But the basics were all too easy to forget.

So for all of you writers out there, this is your reminder: Remember your process. Finish your draft. Don’t worry about what comes next. Cross that bridge when you get there.