Primalsoup

Or, how I quit my job to write a novel I hadn’t started, then quietly returned to that same job three months later

[Representative Image generated using AI]

In 2012, I did what any delusional person with a vague idea for a novel might do.

I walked into my boss’s office and quit my job.

Triumphantly, I might add.
Make note: I had not written a single word at this time.

But I had a character.
Who may or may not have been autobiographical.
(Back then I’d say things like, “I’m not her, but all her stories are mine.”
Which sounds weirdly profound if you don’t think about it too hard, and just vaguely insufferable if you do.)

Anyway, there I was.
Dreaming of literary royalties, writer festivals, and never having to run another research study or focus group again on deep existential questions like: “How much mint do you like in your toothpaste?”

With whatever money I had saved from my job (which was not a lot), I bought myself a refurbished MacBook.
Because if nothing else, I could at least look like a writer.
I sat in cafes on Tuesday afternoons, opening empty Google Docs and pretending to follow my life’s calling.

Between the overpriced coffee and the refurbished MacBook, I was out of savings in three months.

By this time, I had written… very little.
But I had spent many hours formatting a title page.
And colour-coding a character chart I never used.

So, with my tail between my legs and dignity somewhere near the bottom of my last cappuccino, I returned to my old job.
Thankfully, they still hired me.

I was back to being a part-time researcher, part-time writer, full-time fraud in my own head.

And while I was doing this, limping toward a first draft, doubting every sentence, people around me were being wildly prolific.
One book a year.
Sometimes two.
I’d go to their launches, clap politely, and come home wondering:
Does the world really need one more story?
And honestly, did I have a story worth telling?

Was my voice even worth it?

With each passing year, the desire to write the novel has only grown.
But so has the doubt.

The gap between what I want to say and what I manage to write is now wide enough to park a small aircraft.

I used to think time was the problem.
Then I thought it was discipline.
Then I blamed capitalism, content fatigue, market pressure, lack of Vitamin D, my work calendar, Mercury retrograde, and poor posture.

But deep down, I knew what it really was:
What if I just don’t have it?

What if I was always better at being about writing than actually writing?

And the math?
The math is not in my favour.

With every year I don’t write this book, the pressure builds.
The story swells in my head, but so does the fear that it’s already too late.
That I missed the moment.
That someone else will say what I was trying to say, and do it better, faster, with less existential thrashing.

Honestly, I’ve always known I’d be defeated by math.
I just didn’t expect it to look like this.

In 2012, I was maybe 70% writer.
At least in my head.
The rest of me was made up of optimism, delusion, and a refurbished MacBook.

Now, in 2025, I’m about 50% protein (and apparently, that’s still not enough),
40% constant ennui,
And the remaining 10% is a mix of day job, part-time recipe tester, wannabe influencer, and somewhere, deep in the subatomic particles, maybe 0.0005% writer.

But she’s still in there.
Quiet. Tired.
But not extinct.

And that, dear readers, is reason no. 127862823 for how not to write a novel, because sometimes, your ratio of protein to prose just isn’t working out.