It took me 2 years to finish a short story once. A story that’s under 1,500 words, mind you. And there’s another idea rattling around in my head that I had back in 2017. I’m still not done—in fact, I haven’t even decided what that story really is yet.
I know what it feels like to think you have to finish your story right now or you’ll never be a real writer. To feel like your identity, success, and life are on the line based on whether or not you write and publish your novel.
But the story that took me 2 years is infinitely better because I took time to let it grow, to figure out what it was, and to let the right words come to me without forcing them or feeling shitty when they didn’t.
At the same time, there’s a lot to be said for practice and not holding your stories to such a high standard that you never finish them. (That’s not what I did with the story I mention here, but a case could be made for giving that one up and writing a hundred stories with reckless abandon during those two years.)
I guess what I’m saying is, who cares if it takes you 2 years or twenty so long as you’re having fun while doing it.
Your writing doesn’t define you. It doesn’t need to support you. And it’s certainly not going to transform you into a different person with one story. Only you can do that for yourself. Writing is just a bonus.