Writing a novel and getting it published has been compared to a lot of things. For me, it evoked Kendal mint cake, mud and getting soaked to the skin. I’m sure I’m not the first to see it this way, but I’ve found novel-writing more like hill-walking than a rollercoaster, rodeo or marathon. Like hill-walking, I also find writing infinitely more enjoyable with decent kit and companions.
My first attempt to hike up a serious hill was not a success. The gentle slopes at the beginning were wonderful, but I was unfit, had ill-fitting, slippery boots, and a coat that was about as breathable as a bin bag. I ended up sweaty and sore-footed, and the view from halfway up didn’t really feel worth the pain. I don’t know about the view from the top: having decided maps were for wimps, my friends and I never got to go there.
My early attempts at novel-writing were similar. I loved the early stages, but once the going got tough, perspiration quickly turned to exasperation and I could never navigate my way to ‘The End’, always coming a cropper in the face of hidden plot holes.
My hill-walking experiences improved dramatically when I developed a crush on a friend who knew all about maps, compasses and waterproof clothing (he told me he was the second man in Ireland to have a Gore-Tex jacket – how could I resist?). Properly kitted out, I headed for the hills with my knight in waterproof-but-breathable armour. This time it was glorious. Having the right tools for the job meant I wasn’t wasting energy slipping and correcting myself, and was much better able to appreciate everything about the experience. Unsurprisingly, having a map also made picking a workable route a hell of a lot easier than simply yomping upwards and hoping there would be no ravines in the way (who would have thought it?). There were still breathless moments (ahem) and times when my muscles were not remotely happy, but Sir Hikesalot assured me this sort of misery was part of the process (yay!) and not a sign I was doing it wrong. We also celebrated each stage with Kendal mint cake and a nip from a flask (coffee or whisky, or both, as needed). We got to the top and it was glorious.
With writing, the kit isn’t as physical, though notebooks and Special Mugs are, of course, vital. My literary equivalents of Gore-Tex and Vibram soles turned out to be techniques learnt on the Professional Writing Academy and Faber Academy’s ‘Writing a Novel’ course. These techniques didn’t make writing easy but, like Sir Hikesalot, they taught me that difficult doesn’t mean impossible. With these tools, and input from course tutor Peter Benson and the other fabulous writers in my cohort, I learnt to work around difficult stretches rather than panic and give up (I still panic a bit, but don’t give up). As with hiking, the human company was just as important as the technical tools. A key part of the course was sharing work with others. Though daunting at first, it quickly became clear how useful this was in identifying, then anticipating and preventing, common problems.
I finished with 50,000 words, a clear idea of how to get to the end, and some fantastic new comrades. Buoyed up with the confidence that these comrades had read my pages and liked them, I entered a few competitions and was lucky enough to be shortlisted for the Cheshire Novel Prize and longlisted for the Caledonia Novel Award. There followed a six-week scramble to complete the novel. I didn’t win, but I did have a finished draft and some more brilliant writing friends from the competitions, who were worth their weight in gold (and Gore-Tex).
Of course, a finished draft wasn’t the end: as with hill-walking, what looks like ‘the top’ is often a false summit followed by an even tougher climb. But, also as with hills, it’s one hundred percent worth celebrating each summit, false or otherwise. If you don’t celebrate the small stuff, appreciate the views and pause to take stock, it’s easy to lose sight of why you’re there in the first place. To be ultra cheesy about it, novels and hill walks are not about finish lines. The real joy (for me at least) is not in getting back to the car or writing ‘The End’: it’s in the mud, moss and heather beneath my boots; the birds and animals, the sun, the wind and the clouds; it’s in the way words weave together to conjure stories, characters and feelings; in the small details and sweeping views, the changing perspectives and the new insights into old places.
After finishing that first draft, there were many more climbs, and they’re not over even now: editing (which I loved), querying agents (which I hated), being on submission to publishers (which I hated even more) and the sheer vulnerability of waiting for reviews from early readers (which I am currently trying to ignore). At every stage, even polite rejections and minor negative comments sting, slapping you in the face like hailstorms on a hike, and they seem to get colder and sharper the higher you get. There’s also a lot of helpless waiting, which feels like being caught in a sudden mist, losing all sense of direction and self, often just when you think you’ve glimpsed a grail-like book deal ahead (illuminated Monty Python style, naturally).
This is where good kit and comrades really come into their own. They can’t prevent the hail, the mist, or the aching muscles and mind, but they make them bearable and even absurdly enjoyable at times. They stop you being drenched and demoralised and enable you to hike and write another day so you can all get to the next Good Bit, or at least the pub.
As I write this, I’m just over two weeks from the publication of my debut novel, Noble Beasts, which reimagines a hidden Victorian scandal in the Scottish Highlands, and involves plenty of heather and hills. I’m well aware that even publication is a false summit, but I’ll be celebrating by enjoying the view and thanking the phenomenal friends who’ve helped me to get this far through the hailstorms and whose own writing has been such a joy to read.
I’ll also be raising a glass with Sir Hikesalot (reader, I married him). We probably won’t have Kendal mint cake though; it tastes vile with champagne.
Noble Beasts by Lucy Waverley is published on 21st May 2026 by Black & White Publishing.
