Momentum and the Truth About Finishing a Novel (5 Pieces of Advice for Writers: Part 4)

Momentum and The Brutal Truth About Finishing a Novel

By JL Copeland

What’s the most important thing you need to finish a novel?

Momentum.

Keep going, don’t stop, don’t overthink.

Forward. Always forward.

And the second most important thing?

To have already finished a novel.

Which, yes—sounds like a cosmic joke. A chicken-and-egg conundrum wrapped in existential dread.

But here’s the hard truth:

You have to finish one, to know how to finish one.

And you can’t finish one, until you finish one.

So.

No matter the excuse.

No matter the distractions.

Even if the gods of hell are pounding on your door demanding overdue sacrifices…

Grit your teeth and finish the damn novel.

Will it be easy?

Absolutely not.

But it will be done.

And that changes everything.

Welcome to Part 4 of my unofficial, slightly unhinged guide for writers who are past the “just happy to be here” phase.

So far, we’ve covered:

That everyone has their own weird little start line (Part 1),

That ideas > perfect prose (Part 2),

And that you should write what the hell you want (Part 3).

But now we’re getting into the real stuff.

The trench warfare.

Actually finishing the damn thing.

Because let’s be honest—starting is exciting.

Tinkering is fun.

But keeping going? That’s where the bodies are buried.

So how do you do that?

How do you keep momentum when your brain is tired, your confidence is limping, and your plot just gaslit you?

Let’s talk about it.

“Hang on. You haven’t finished one either. Just what the hell have you been doing, JL?”

Fair question.

Here’s what the first six-ish years of my writing life looked like:

2017 (Winter): 90,000 words – first draft of Daughters of the DMZ.

2018 (Summer): 30,000+ words into novel two. Abandoned mid-sulk.

2019 (October): Short story.

2020 (March): Another short story.

2021 (Jan–Feb): 60,000-word first draft of Nicksgate (the current novel).

2022 (Sept–Oct): Two short stories.

2023 (Spring): Nicksgate second draft – 85,000 words + one short story.

2024 (Spring/Summer): Nicksgate third draft – full rewrite, 93,000 words.

In summary:

A couple of abandoned novels.

Half a dozen short stories.

One novel in its third incarnation.

And a slow-burn existential crisis.

“Seven years and you still haven’t finished one?”

Yeah. I’ve asked myself the same. Frequently. Loudly. Often into a mirror.

But here’s the thing:

I’m not that unusual.

Only around 3% of people who start writing a novel actually finish one.

Three. Percent.

That’s less than the amount of fruit in kids’ “fruit snacks.”

So how long should it take to finish a novel?

Ah yes—the ol’ “how long is a kangaroo’s cock?” question.

(Depends on the kangaroo, doesn’t it?)

But if we ask the internet, it goes something like this:

Outlining & Planning: 2–3 weeks

First Draft: ~6 months for a 75k novel

Revisions: 1–2 months

Editing, Proofing, Covers, Tears: 2 months

So in theory, a new author could go from idea to published book in about a year—if they’re disciplined, focused, and have a small army of editors, beta readers, and caffeine.

But most of us don’t.

Most of us stall because we lack one critical thing:

Momentum.

And without momentum, everything drags.

Writing becomes quicksand.

Your project starts looking at you like an ex you still owe money.

That’s why the goal, always, is to keep moving.

Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s messy.

Even if the novel looks like it’s held together with duct tape and snot.

Just.

Keep.

Going.

Should I Write Every Day?

(aka the fastest way to feel like a failure)

One of the most repeated commandments in The Advice™ Hall of Fame is this little gem:

“Write every day.”

Honestly?

I hate it.

Way to instantly make me feel like a lazy good-for-nuthin’ who doesn’t want it badly enough.

Cheers, guru-dudes.

Let me level with you:

I do not write every day.

Not even close.

I’m better now, sure.

And you’ll find out why in Part 5 of my tips for writers when you subscribe to the newsletter HERE.

But since 2017, there were two entire years where I didn’t write a single word.

Not a sentence. Not a sad little haiku. Nothing.

Things shifted in 2021.

I signed up for my first-ever paid writing course—editing with Jericho Writers.

There were classmates.

Expectations.

People who believed I was a writer.

And suddenly, I felt like one.

That momentum? I grabbed it.

Ran with it.

For a while.

When I’m in a draft, things are golden.

I can do 1,000+ words a day, easy.

The caffeine hits right, the prose flows, I am a god among keyboards.

But then… the draft ends.

I print it.

Read it.

Make a few marks.

And then comes the creeping horror:

I have to do it all over again.

Cue the ceremonial drawer burial.

I lock the manuscript away for two months, like The Advice™ says.

“You should be journaling, brainstorming, blurb-writing,” they say.

“You’re still writing, just differently,” they say.

Me? I do none of those things.

I tell myself I need “focus.” That I shouldn’t start something new or I’ll lose the thread.

Translation: I stop writing.

Week one: I feel smug. I’ve earned this break. Look at me, Draft King.

Week two: Still riding the high. Occasionally admire the drawer like it’s a trophy case.

Week three: Hmm. Maybe I’ll, uh… think about the next draft? Nothing comes.

Week four: Ah. There it is. My old pal anxiety, back from her spa retreat.

Was the idea even any good?

Was this just a practice novel?

Have I wasted months on a project that’ll go nowhere?

Will another draft just be more pointless polish on a structurally unsound turd?

This, my friends, is how momentum dies.

Not with a bang—but with self-doubt, excuses, and an unopened Word doc.

Then one of two things would happen:

1. The Education Dodge™

(Because nothing says “I’m a writer” like not actually writing.)

Here’s what would happen, nine times out of ten, after I’d finished a draft and let it stew:

I’d pull a classic move.

One of my signature dodges.

The Education Dodge™.

Now, this isn’t skipping school.

This is using education as a smokescreen to avoid doing the actual work.

The logic (ha) would go something like this:

“I clearly need to become a better writer before I tackle the next draft.”

That’s it. That’s the lie.

From there, I’d fall down the literary rabbit hole.

There’s always a handful of must-read craft books waiting to guilt-trip you from the shelves.

Plus the new one all the writing podcasts are creaming over like it’s the second coming of Hemingway.

And naturally, I can’t just read them.

No, no. That would be lazy. It would also limit the time spent in the inviting, lukewarm mud bath/swamp of procrastination.

To “get the most out of it,” I’d tell myself, I had to take extensive notes.

I once summarized a Lisa Cron book in thirty pages of A4.

That’s not a summary.

That’s a novella.

It took weeks.

Ask me now what I learned from it?

Absolutely no idea. Not a clue. But hey, the word count was impressive.

Lately, my particular brand of spaffing time up the wall is being sucked into:

The YouTube writing video vortex.

Lecture-style. Lo-fi. Narrated by guys and gals who sound like they’ve been trapped in a windowless room for a decade.

I scribble notes.

I open new Google Docs.

I highlight stuff.

I pretend this is writing.

It is not writing.

Meanwhile, momentum’s been gagged, tied up, and dropped in the Mississippi with concrete boots.

Rust blooms.

The machine seizes up.

And now? Starting the next draft is like trying to lunge a dead horse uphill during a blizzard of doubt.

Eventually, I’d force myself back to the manuscript.

Armed with a shiny new theory from Chapter 6 of some craft bible.

And depending on my mood (or breakfast cereal), one of two things would happen:

A) I’d read the draft and decide, definitively, it’s trash. Total trash. Time-wasting, hope-crushing trash. Cue another few months of spiritual collapse.

B) I’d kinda get back into it.

Cautiously. Glacially (although aren’t glaciers moving backwards these days?).

Underline a few bits.

Whisper to the characters, “Hey, remember me?”

And maybe—just maybe—find myself writing again.

But by then?

It’s been six. bloody. months.

Momentum’s been gone so long it’s technically considered a missing person.

Watch out for the Education Dodge.

It’s clever.

It’s sneaky.

It’s wearing a “writer” T-shirt and holding a highlighter.

And it’ll eat your time alive.

Aside from the education dodge, there was one other thing, perhaps even more serious.

Strange music drifts from your pile of discarded notebooks.

They pull you in closer.

Closer.

Closer.

NO.

You scratch at your eyes, rip off your ears, but you can’t turn off your brain.

Too late, you have been enchanted by

2. The Siren Call of the ‘Other Novel’

(Because nothing tempts a writer like a shiny new idea when your current draft smells faintly of despair.)

Let’s be honest: this one gets us all eventually.

But right now, I’m talking specifically to writers like me—

those of us still unpublished,

still trying to finish our first real novel,

still questioning all our life choices on a Tuesday morning.

There are loads of us.

We are legion.

We haunt writing forums like caffeinated poltergeists.

And one question that keeps popping up:

“How do you keep a novel going?”

Answer:

First, avoid the glittery trap of the Other Novel.

You know the one. The hot new idea that shows up in your brain whispering sweet nothings while your current WIP is giving you nothing but migraines and self-doubt.

Now, some folks argue that working on a different novel while your main one rests is “productive.”

Let’s look at the two most common arguments in favour of this nonsense, and then knock them down like dignity at a family reunion:

Argument 1: “It gives you a break but keeps you writing.”

Sure. On paper, it sounds reasonable.

Take a little breather from the novel, keep the fingers busy, stay in the creative zone.

Cool. But here’s a better idea:

Use that downtime to actually recharge.

Refill the creative well.

Read something weird and brilliant.

Keep a little writing journal.

Toss your ego into a flash fiction contest or drabble comp (100 words is basically tweeting).

Dust off your newsletter or blog and write something gloriously unhinged about your writing process.

Plot world domination through your website.

Basically: do something fun and low-stakes.

Feed your creativity without throwing yourself into another novel-length commitment like a panicked serial dater.

Argument 2: “It’s good practice to work on another novel.”

Okay. Technically, this one sounds true.

But here’s why I push back hard:

The further you go into one novel, the harder it gets.

You’re learning. You’re stretching. You’re battling your inner critic with a flaming sword made of caffeine and spite.

You know what’s really good practice?

Pushing through.

Finishing the damn thing.

Revising. Editing. Rewriting. Crying a bit. Revising again.

Every draft teaches you something the shiny-new-idea never will.

Bailing on a novel because it got hard is like switching to a new instrument every time you learn six chords.

Yeah, cool, you can say you’ve “got several novels in the works.”

But really?

You’re just out here playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on the harp, piano, bassoon and kazoo—and calling yourself a symphony orchestra.

So yeah. That Other Novel?

Put it in the notes app.

Wave to it across the room.

Maybe give it a pet name and a gentle stroke.

But don’t jump ship.

Your current WIP needs you.

Even if it stinks like emotional roadkill right now.

Keep going.

That’s how you become a writer who finishes.

So… can you write two books at once?

Absolutely not.

And here’s why—from someone who has, and lived to regret it.

1. The Other Novel is a Distraction Gremlin.

Once you get past that giddy first-draft buzz, second and third drafts are where it gets serious.

We’re talking character arcs mutating, subplots getting a lobotomy, and entire chapters going up in flames.

This is when you need focus. Laser focus.

Not a side quest.

Start letting your brain wander to that other shiny idea and it’s like texting your ex while trying to fix your marriage.

You’ll crash both.

2. The Other Novel Is a Velociraptor Lifeboat.

You think it’s your escape route.

“Oh look, a lifeboat! I’ll just hop in and write this new one real quick while the old one sorts itself out.”

That lifeboat is full of holes.

Also, there’s a velociraptor under the tarp.

It will destroy your momentum and probably your self-esteem.

The new idea is always going to feel easier, more fun, more pure.

You haven’t had to wrestle its plot holes or argue with its main character yet.

But abandoning your WIP mid-way to chase something shiny?

That’s how people end up with five “novels in progress” and zero books on the shelf.

You’re better than that.

3. It Will Take You Twice as Long to Finish Anything.

I know how important it is to get one novel—just one—over the finish line.

The confidence boost, the clarity in your writing process, the sheer weight lifted off your imposter syndrome’s chest… it’s massive.

If I’d just stuck with Daughters of the DMZ, I honestly believe Nicksgate would be long done too.

But instead, I meandered. I project-hopped.

And look—I didn’t waste time (no writing is wasted, not really)—

But I sure as hell took the long way round.

So don’t be me.

I get it now. Momentum is everything.

Wondering how to finish a novel faster?

There’s your answer: don’t stop.

Keep going until that first novel is done.

Even if it turns out to be a “practice” book, at least you’ll know.

You’ll know what it takes. You’ll know you can do it.

And the next one will go smoother because you’ll have actually finished something.

That finish line feeling?

It’s rocket fuel for your confidence, your creativity, your entire damn writer soul.

Later, yeah—you might be able to juggle multiple projects like some kind of plot-spinning circus act.

But not now.

Not until you’ve proven to yourself that you can finish.

You don’t have to write every day—I sure as hell don’t.

But think about your book every day.

Solve a scene in your head. Jot a sticky note of dialogue.

Keep the pilot light on, even if you’re not at the keyboard.

Write regularly. Stick with one book. Finish.

Don’t be seven years deep with a desk full of half-baked manuscripts and no real finish line in sight.

I’m not doing that anymore.

It’s 2026, and this year, I’m finishing Nicksgate. You can hold me to it.

Now go make that snowball roll.

JL

Beyond the Newb – My 5 Top Lessons Learned for Writers a Few Years In: Part Fivve

Yeah, I know how to spell. It’s called style, darling.

Anyway—Part 5’s a special one.

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📣 Over to You—Let’s Chat in the Comments

Finished reading? Now I want to hear your war stories. Tell me:

💬 What’s your biggest novel momentum killer?

💬 Ever ditched a WIP for a shiny new idea? How’d that work out?

💬 Are you a write-every-day ninja or a “when the mood strikes” gremlin like me?

💬 Got your own version of the Education Dodge? (Looking at you, YouTube rabbit holes.)

💬 How many practice novels are loitering in your drawer?

💬 What advice would you give your past writing self—or to someone stuck between drafts?

👇Drop your answers in the comments and let’s swap notes. Misery loves company, and so do writers.👇