Can I write a novel in three months?

Should I even try?

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

Can I write a novel in three months? This is the question I’ve been asking myself all week.

When I divided the number of words in a novel (around 90,000) by the number of days (91 if I started on 1 April), it seemed almost easy. I could bash out 989 words a day until the end of June.

That’s completely doable, I thought. I imagined myself making a cup of tea, sitting down at my writing desk and tapping away on my keyboard, the words and the tea and maybe the biscuits flowing. Within no time, I’d have a completed novel draft and would be so proud of myself. Really, really proud.

But life is not that easy.

I already squeeze a lot into my days, struggling for time and space and, on the days when my oestrogen levels plummet, energy.

My weeks currently involve:

• Spending time with my wonderful niece. I do this as often as I can because she is my priority no matter what.

• Caring for my geriatric horse and runaway rabbit every morning and evening and sometimes during the day.

• Writing, editing and publishing my weekly Substack essay.

• Procrastinating (sorry, I mean, progressing) another book. This one is nonfiction, similar to my first two nonfiction collections, but better—if only I could finish it.

• Fitness classes (spinning and Pilates) and running because I’ve only gone and entered a 10k. What was I thinking?

• Beauty maintenance—this is a complete drain on my time and energy, but without it, it’s highly likely I will be mistaken for a man. This has happened twice. Both times, I was out running.

‘Go on, lad,’ an old man shouted as I jogged past.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Oh, I thought you were a man.’

‘No. I’m really not.’

So, facial maintenance really is an essential.

• Seeing family and friends whenever I can and doing all the family things.

• Oh, working a full-time (37 and a half hours a week) demanding day job.

• And not forgetting my husband, who I love dearly and pass occasionally on the stairs.

Hectic, you might think. A bit much, maybe?

The question now is not so much can I write a book in three months, rather can I do it and still do all the things?

Probably not.

‘Why do you even want to write a book in three months?’ I hear you ask. ‘Why not six months or a year? What’s the rush? Take your time. Be patient.’

Well, let me explain. There’s this competition I want to enter. It’s the Comedy Women in Print Prize, the UK and Ireland’s first comedy literary prize dedicated to celebrating witty women’s writing.

It is the brainchild of comedian, author and actress Helen Lederer, and aims to recognise, celebrate and encourage witty women authors. Drumroll please, it offers a publishing deal. A publishing deal! With a publishing company! Something I have wanted all my life.

At the start of this year, when I was thinking about what I wanted to achieve in 2025, I had a long list of creative projects and ambitions, but finishing my comedy novel, entering the CWIP Prize, and winning, obviously, was right up there. But then, I talked myself out of it, deciding instead to focus on smaller, more achievable projects.

WTF?!

Yes, that’s right. I decided not to try. I told myself I wouldn’t be ready in time. Life is too hectic. It just wasn’t possible. The full-time day job, the face maintenance, the pets and everything else meant I could not realistically fit it in, even though it was an amazing opportunity that might even change my life.

‘A publishing deal?’ you say.

‘No thanks! Not for me!’

I was turning my back on something I’ve wanted since I picked up a pencil in Mrs Bessant’s reception class. I tried to convince myself that I was being realistic, productive, and demonstrating incredible focus on my other project.

So, that’s what I’ve been doing—busying myself with writing this Substack, working on my nonfiction book and trying to juggle life. The only problem is that however much I tried to ignore my novel, it would not leave me alone. At the slightest chance, it’s demanded my attention. I’d be in the bath or on a run, or even in bed, trying to nod off, and it would jump into my mind, refusing to be ignored.

I’m here. Don’t give up on me.

Then last week, I had an email from the organisers of the comedy scriptwriting competition for which I made the quarterfinal last year. They sent me a badge to celebrate my achievement. I haven’t earned a badge since I got my 100m breaststroke in 1987, so I was incredibly excited.

It was also the sign I needed. The script I was working on became the comedy novel. They are the same thing. That I made the quarterfinal shows me they have potential.

So, I began to wonder. Can I write a novel in 90 days and enter the Comedy Women in Print Prize?

The negative voice in my head said: ‘No.’

But the passionate, go-getting, anything-is-possible voice said: ‘Absolutely. Go for it.’

Pulled between the two, I googled it.

Is it possible to write a novel in three months?

‘Yes,’ came the reply. ‘But don’t expect it to be very good—unless you’re Wonder Woman.’ It wasn’t quite what I’d hoped. After all, I wanted a polished award-winning novel.

The sensible voice in my head said I should give up, but I’m refusing to listen. If I’ve learned anything in my 45-years, it’s that we should never NEVER put boundaries around what we think is possible. I’m taking the ‘no limits’ approach, choosing to believe in myself and my words and try. I am not Wonder Woman, but let’s see what I can do.

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P.S. To help keep me on track, I’ll post a mid-week update on my progress, and I would really appreciate your support. It’ll be so much easier with people cheering me on.

P.P.S. If you would like to support my writing, you can do that for less than a pound a week. It shows me you enjoy my work and want me to continue. Thanks so much for being here.