How to Not Write a Novel: The Advice Chapter

Or, what I’ve learned from reading writing advice (and ignoring all of it)

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The thing about writing advice is that it’s everywhere. Like glitter, or unsolicited feedback. It clings to you long after you’ve tried to brush it off. It shows up on podcasts, in Substack essays, at the back of MFA brochures. And it almost always sounds deceptively wise.

Naturally, when I first began writing a novel, I read every listicle, every tweet-thread, every craft book that ever started with “Dear Writer.” I underlined, highlighted, even made vision boards with my favourite quotes. Then, of course, I ignored all of it.

Here is what I’ve learned from the writing advice I’ve received (and mostly failed to follow):

1. “Write every day.”

Absolutely. Just as soon as I finish the day job that pays my rent, sit through my 90-minute commute, complete the 20-step skincare routine that prevents me from looking like an abandoned raisin, and watch five hours of Instagram reels of recipes I will never cook.

Also, should I write before or after reading two Substack newsletters about how AI will replace me, or three Medium essays about the importance of ‘deep work’?

Eventually, I write once a week. On Mondays. Between 10:45 and 11:07 PM. With guilt.

2. “First, make it exist. Then make it make sense. Then make it good.”

Easy.

Except the first draft is so incoherent that not even I understand what I was trying to say. There’s a scene where a man drops a mango in slow motion and someone cries. Is it a metaphor? A memory? A heat-induced hallucination?

I’m told the point of a first draft is to “just get it down.” I do. And then spend the next six months trying to read my own cryptic notes, which include gems like:

“Insert trauma here (but lightly).”
“Why is she crying? Check astrology?”

3. “Write drunk. Edit on caffeine.”

A fun aphorism. Until you realize that writing is the fastest way to ruin both your gut and your liver. After three weeks of this process, I had gastritis, a mild anxiety disorder, and a genuine fear of espresso.

Writing school doesn’t warn you about this. It also doesn’t warn you that your central conflict will remain unresolved, but you’ll develop a full-blown dependency on imported oat milk.

4. “Make your characters want something.”

Classic advice. Desire is what drives plot, right?

But your character’s wants start looking a lot like your own. Did she want a second chance at love—or did you just want a cuddle and an affirming text message? Did she want to go to Kodaikanal or were you just pricing homestays on Booking.com while trying to write Chapter 4?

Then, at your monthly writing workshop on Zoom, someone raises their hand and says, “But is it a need or a want?” And the next 45 minutes are spent arguing about Maslow, Freud, capitalism, and childhood trauma.

You mute yourself, eat leftover khichdi, and wonder if joining this program was a mistake.

5. “Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your characters, make awful things happen to them.”

No thank you.

These people live in my head rent-free. I am their landlord, therapist, and underpaid scriptwriter. I can’t just hurt them.

Besides, some of them are loosely based on people I know. Or am. And what if I do hurt them in fiction, and the real versions show up at my doorstep one day and say, “So, about that emotional breakdown you wrote for me in Chapter 7?”

I can’t afford that kind of confrontation. Not with my current vitamin D levels.

6. “Read your work aloud to hear the rhythm.”

Sure. But once you hear yourself saying, “She longed for the rain to wash away her pain,” in an empty room, the rhythm is the least of your problems.

You start to hear other things. Your mother saying, “Is this what you’re doing with your life?” Your inner critic muttering, “This sounds like a rejected soap ad.” Your own voice, suddenly shy, as you close the laptop and tell yourself you’ll revise tomorrow.

You won’t.

And that, dear readers, is reason no. 127862824 for how not to write a novel – because sometimes the only thing you’ve mastered is reading writing advice… and using it to procrastinate.

Primalsoup