Thirteen years ago, I started writing a magical realism novel. I was living in central New Jersey at the time and attending local writing groups but no critique groups. Writing without judgment was a freeing experience. I truly looked forward to my daily writing sessions. As a result, more than 114,000 words spilled out of me. Soon after I finished my second draft, my husband was transferred back to Los Angeles. I hoped to publish my manuscript when we settled in So Cal. But when I gave it to my California writing critique group, they eviscerated my pages.

Some people didn’t like that the story was written from the perspective of an adult looking back. Others were put off by the magical realism elements and wanted me to make it realistic. Lots of people thought it was too long and wordy. One person encouraged me to turn my dark adult story into a happy story for children. Initially, I dug in my heels and resisted their pleas to change my book. I hired someone to line-edit and clean it up. I thought if it was easier to read, it would feel less complicated, and people would see and appreciate my story. They didn’t.

Frustrated, I put it in a drawer and wrote several more novels. But something about the magical story pulled at me. In between projects, I’d take it out and attempt to rework it. More years passed, and I grew determined to fix and get it right. I’d written other novels that hadn’t gone anywhere, and I’d been fine with not putting them out in the world. But this story felt different, like it could break out. Plus, I felt emotionally connected to it.

So, over the years that followed, I made some of the changes that readers suggested, hoping to keep the story’s essence intact. I removed the looking-back sense that some readers said pulled them out of the story. I tried to explain all their unanswered questions right away. I even changed my inciting incident.  But then the story felt off. A decade had passed since I’d finished my first draft. I realized that I couldn’t simply insert new paragraphs because my new words wouldn’t flow with the old ones. My solution was to rewrite the book from page one.  Though I committed to this tedious process, it soon became apparent that the rewrite didn’t feel fresh. It felt rushed and forced.

When my critique group ripped the rewrite apart for the umpteenth time, it dawned on me… maybe this magical realism novel was meant to be a practice novel. I’d written a number of those. But their purpose had been clear to me. Plus, I’d felt potential here. I loved this story and these characters. Okay, I’ll admit it. I fell in love with novel writing while writing this book back in New Jersey. But only thirty percent of people marry their first loves. I didn’t. I dumped my high school sweetheart when I went to college. Should I dump this book too? Was it time to move on?

I reminded myself that many great books took time to write. JRR Tolkien took seventeen years to write Lord of the Rings. JD Salinger took ten years to write The Catcher in the Rye, and Margaret Mitchell took ten years to write Gone with the Wind. Was I giving up too soon on my magical realism novel? Was I being impatient? The question hit me. How do you know if the novel you love and are obsessed with is the real deal or merely a practice novel? Below are some of my takes.

1. No one loves it but you. If most readers are lukewarm about your story, it’s probably a practice novel.
2. It gets worse instead of better the more you rewrite and try to fix it.
3. Take the pitch test. If you can’t pitch it with excitement and confidence to an editor, agent, fellow writer, or yourself, it’s likely a practice novel.
4. If you’ve exhausted all resources …critique groups, professional editors, agents, teachers… and it’s still not working, then it’s a practice novel.
5. If you don’t get responses from queries and pages that you send to agents or editors, it could be a practice novel.

Most people have to kiss a lot of frogs before they find their prince or princess. Stats also show that, on average, authors will write 3.24 books before they publish their debut novel. We, as writers, like to think that every book we write will be published, and it can be if you go the self-publishing route. But don’t forget that writing for practice is an essential part of the writing journey. It’s no different than athletes practicing for a championship game or actors rehearsing for opening night.  Killing one of your darlings doesn’t mean you’ve wasted your time. If you behead that practice novel, you could be freeing yourself up to write the next great American novel. That’s my plan. That said, every writer and each book is different. No one can decide if your novel is a practice novel, but you.

How many practice novels have you written? How do you know when one of your manuscripts is a practice novel? What are the telltale signs? What is the longest you’ve ever worked in a novel? How many years? I’d love to hear your thoughts on this subject! Thanks for reading my post!