The Stages of Writing a Novel (As Explained by Toddlers)

If you’ve never watched a toddler experience the full breadth of human emotion in under seven minutes, let me tell you: it’s the closest thing to drafting a novel I’ve ever seen.

My daughter Eliana is a perfectionist. My son Cal is a joyful tornado. Together, they’re the personification of every creative process I’ve ever survived.

And as someone who spends her days toggling between editing client manuscripts, reading submissions, writing my own novels, and parenting two tiny humans who experience all their feelings at maximum volume… I’ve stopped pretending these aren’t the same skill sets.

Writing a novel is raising a toddler.
It is wild.
It is erratic.
It is unexpectedly sacred.
And it will absolutely test your patience, organizational skills, belief in gravity, and ability to consume coffee at unsafe temperatures.

(Fair warning: if you’ve ever written anything longer than a tweet, this may hit uncomfortably close to home.)

The Spark

Toddlers are bold. Fearless. Outrageously confident. When a toddler decides they’re doing something alone, you can’t stop them.

Socks on hands? Absolutely. Pajamas worn backwards to Target? A choice.

That’s what writing starts out like. You have an idea. A GOOD idea.

You can see the whole book in your head—the characters, the emotions, the climactic heartbreak that will make readers sob into their tea. It’s cinematic. It’s perfect. You’re unstoppable. Invincible. Drunk on possibility.

I love this stage for you. It’s the toddler in you yelling, “I did it!” while confidently putting both legs through one pant hole. This optimism is fuel. Let yourself enjoy it.

The Meltdown in Aisle 6

Every parent has carried a toddler out of a grocery store like a 40-pound sack of spaghetti noodles. If you haven’t, congratulations—your child is a unicorn or you simply haven’t lived long enough.

This is the part where your plot collapses and refuses to get up. Where your characters wander off in emotional protest. Where your outline (if you even had one) now feels like it was written by a stranger.

Think of it like this: a toddler meltdown happens because a tiny human is overwhelmed by their own possibilities but doesn’t yet have the structure to handle them.

Your book is doing the same thing. It knows what it wants to be, but it lacks the muscle tone to get there.

This is also where most writers quit. Not because they’re untalented, but because they misinterpret growing pains as failure.

If you’re here, knee-deep in narrative pudding, I want you to know this:

You haven’t done anything wrong. Your words are just having a moment. Carry your manuscript out of the store. It will calm down.

The Breakthrough

After a meltdown that had you questioning whether you should flee and start a new life in Montana, your toddler suddenly hands you a dandelion, pats your cheek, and says, “You’re my best friend.”

The emotional whiplash is unnerving.

Books do this too.

One day everything is tangled. The next day you write 1,200 words of pure, unfiltered brilliance. Your characters start behaving. Your structure clicks. A plot hole magically resolves itself with the help of one sentence you didn’t even plan.

This stage feels like magic, but it’s also the natural byproduct of the last stage. The meltdown wasn’t a setback. It was compost. And now your book is blooming.

This stage doesn’t last long, so absorb it like sunshine. Let yourself feel like a genius. You earned it.

The Regression

Toddlers do not level up in a straight line. My son once forgot how to put on socks for two months. SOCKS. You’d think he was being forced to diffuse a bomb.

Books also forget how to be books.

You’ll be cruising along. Momentum kicking in. Confidence rising. Then suddenly, you realize chapter nine contradicts chapter two in ways that would make a reader weep.

Take a deep breath. Put some metaphorical shoes back on the manuscript.

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The Glow-Up

There’s a moment in parenting where your kid brings you a picture and for the first time ever… you know what it is.

“Is this a CAT?” you ask, cautiously.

And they beam like they invented art.

This is the moment your book stops feeling like a chaotic toddler scribble and starts feeling like something real.
Not perfect.
Not polished.
But intentional.

Your themes are emerging.
Your pacing makes sense.
Your protagonist finally has a spine.

And suddenly you catch yourself thinking the most dangerous, beautiful thought a writer can think:

“I think this might actually be good.”

This moment is why writers write.
It’s the equivalent of hearing a baby giggle for the first time.
It’s the spark of connection that makes all the meltdowns worth it.

SO WHY DOES ANY OF THIS MATTER?

Because writers misdiagnose normal developmental stages as personal failure.

When your book:

• tantrums

• confuses you

• resists structure

• backslides

• demands more attention

• surprises you

• grows unevenly

…you assume you’re doing it wrong.

But in reality:

You’re experiencing the normal, healthy progression of a book learning how to stand on its own feet.

Your book is not a machine.
Your book is a living, breathing accumulation of your creativity, your emotional energy, your instincts, and your craft.

It will grow like a child grows:

• unpredictably

• imperfectly

• beautifully

• through connection, patience, and time

You can’t rush this.
You can only nurture it.