What Changed When I Stopped Treating My Novel Like a Hobby
On permission, fear, and the quiet identity shift that led me to take my novel seriously.
For years, I treated my novel like something I did around the rest of my life. It made sense at the time… drafting around work, graduate school, parenting, exhaustion, etc. It fit the version of myself I believed was more responsible. I didn’t yet realize I was slowly stifling something in me that refused to stay quiet.
While filling out my MFA Creative Writing application, I had to go back through my Google Calendar to find the dates I started and finished my past degree programs. Buried in the middle of 2018, I found a single two‑hour block labeled: “Write locket novel for 2 hours.”
That was it. No context. No follow‑up. Just that one hopeful attempt.
Looking back now, I recognize the hunger in that version of myself—the desire to tell a story that had already been living inside me for some time. That single calendar entry was a small, earnest gesture toward the person I secretly wanted to become.
In 2018, I was about to begin my second year as a psychology PhD student. I sincerely believed that I needed a PhD in order to keep teaching, which mattered deeply to me. I loved watching my college students grow, watching the spark of curiosity and inspiration ignite as they learned something new and then used it. Their empowerment made me feel empowered. It felt real and necessary. It felt like my calling—helping others grow into the lives they imagined for themselves.
And so I structured my life around that path.
The novel lived on the margins. A single calendar block, a private daydream I rarely shared, a quiet ache I didn’t yet know how to name. Still, I kept writing—mostly in shorter forms like poetry and flash fiction, much of it just for me. Something to return to, reminding myself that I am an artist who yearns for meaning and purpose.
Over the years, my life slowly aligned in a way that made my dream of pursuing creative writing feel professionally viable. Not because life became quieter—it didn’t—but because I realized that no matter how hard I tried to quiet the desire to express myself through creative work, it kept finding its way back to the surface. Even while my energy centered on my degree programs, I joined generative writing workshops, nurtured friendships with other creatives, studied craft books, and kept reading the work that stirred something in me.
Eventually, I leaned fully into the warm belly of the literary fire that has lived inside me for most of my life. I have never felt more like myself.
This past October, the experience of reading my poems at a Fox City Lit event inspired me to take the plunge and apply to an MFA Creative Writing program. The idea of formally deepening my writing practice felt tangible after generous conversations with fellow reader Michaela Godding—the talented poet and artist—and other wonderful writers connected to the program.
To be honest, the MFA application and my novel have taken up most of my mental space lately. Ironically, it wasn’t the idea of the degree itself that pushed me forward—it was the portfolio requirement. The simple, concrete demand that I submit work allowed me to take my novel-writing process seriously.
It wasn’t until this year—seven years after that lonely calendar entry—that I began drafting scenes in any sustainable way. I was no longer just imagining the novel, endlessly outlining, or thinking about being someone who writes a novel. I was actually writing one.
Back then, my novel was an idea I visited. Now, it’s something I live inside.
Calling it a hobby gave me cover for a long time. If I stalled, that was fine—it was just for me. Writing not coming out great? Yep, that was fine too—it was only a hobby. If months passed without touching it, the label itself explained why.
Nothing was wrong. But nothing was fully happening either.
The shift didn’t arrive as a dramatic declaration. It arrived through friction: resistance, wildly unrealistic expectations, and the slow collapse of the fantasy version of what I thought novel‑writing would feel like.
Giving myself permission to write badly on purpose changed things. Writing without editing or polishing sentences mid‑paragraph felt brutal at first. It went against every instinct I had. But the moment I truly allowed myself to write messy, the work moved forward.
Treating my novel-writing process as intentional work—instead of a hobby—didn’t make me fearless. It made me more in contact with my fear. I learned to tell the difference between avoiding the page and genuinely needing rest; between retreat and restoration. That distinction changed everything.
I noticed I revised differently, defended weak choices less, and listened longer to what the story was resisting—embracing a willingness not to get it right the first time. I stopped asking, “Is this impressive?” and started asking, “Is this faithful to the thing I’m trying to make?”
The change in my novel drafting process didn’t show up in speed, but in weight. The work felt heavier in my hands. Not burdensome, but tangible. Like something that might bruise if I mishandled it. All because I finally gave it permission to exist outside my imagination alone.
Quitting a hobby feels neutral. Nothing breaks if you walk away from a hobby, though the longing ache for it may linger. But when something becomes a practice, walking away from it carries information. You feel it, negotiate with it. You notice distancing yourself from it feels dishonest. Like you’re trying to quiet a truth about yourself that cries out for attention.
There is a particular loneliness in taking your writing seriously that no one really warns you about. Once it’s no longer a hobby, you can’t hide behind casualness anymore. You become responsible for the relationship you’ve built, and yet there is also relief in that responsibility. The energy it takes to doubt or half‑believe in yourself is enormous. It limits how you show up for your writing practice. Yet, the energy it takes to live in your truth expands.
Before this realization, I believed permission came from institutions—from degrees, programs, and formally sanctioned paths. I don’t regret that life—I loved teaching. I loved watching students light up when something clicked. But creative writing asks something different of me. It asks me to build permission through direct contact with the art instead of credentials. That is part of why an MFA makes sense to me now—not as a source of legitimacy, but as a container for growth, community, and deeper practice in a life I’m already living.
I didn’t suddenly become more disciplined. I became more honest about what I had already been organizing my life around. The novel had been shaping my days for years, whether I admitted it. Naming it as real simply aligned my behavior with the truth.
If you’re somewhere in that place—loving your work, circling it, protecting yourself from it by keeping it safely labeled a “hobby”—I understand that tenderness. That word does so much emotional labor for us. It keeps the stakes low. It keeps disappointment survivable.
You don’t owe your writing a promotion, ambition, or an audience.
But if you ever feel a quiet grief about how carefully you’ve kept your own work at arm’s length, that grief is information. It’s not a command—but it is honest. You’re allowed to listen to it, to sit with it and see what comes up for you.
For me, letting go of the “hobby” language for my writing practice didn’t turn me into a different person. It let me stop pretending I already wasn’t one.
Consider this letter permission granted… We each write our own narratives. If we don’t, someone—or something—else will gladly write it for us.
Practical Takeaways for Writers with ADHD
If you have ADHD, the gap between wanting to write and being able to enter the work can feel especially brutal. Here are a few permission‑forward truths I learned the hard way:
You don’t need a “real writer” routine to do real writing. Your version of consistency matters more than intensity. Sustainability beats mythology. The writing life comes in many forms—no one form is better or worse. It just is. Give yourself permission to move with it.
Drafting and editing need different brains—don’t force one brain to do both. Messy drafting isn’t a flaw; it’s often accommodation. Write like no one is watching, because they aren’t. Revise later once you have enough raw material in place to build the container that will hold your story.
Resistance usually means the emotional stakes are too high, not that you’re lazy. Before you raise the pressure, try lowering the stakes.
You’re allowed to build a practice that looks “unserious” from the outside. Voice notes, chaos drafts, writing in bursts—none of it disqualifies you. Most productivity advice often fails to consider neurodivergent brains. Treat your brain kindly, and it will meet you there.
You don’t need to believe in yourself to begin—you only need contact with the work. Belief often arrives after the work has already started.
If you’re open, I invite you to share one small permission you’re practicing in your writing right now. You never know who you might inspire.
Keep writing forward,
—Candice
P.S. Only four weeks left until the Focused ADHD Writers Group begins (January 7). Click here to learn more and apply.
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I love this so much. I tell my clients all the time that we have to take ourselves seriously before anyone else does.
I feel attacked