How to Turn an Idea Into a Book

You have an idea for a book. Maybe it's a character, a sentence, a scene, an image, a question, or a feeling you can't quite explain yet.

But how do you turn that idea into an actual book?

The answer is probably less complicated—and less linear—than you think.

The only way to write a book is to start. And the best way to start is to start small.

You don’t need to know exactly what you're doing before you begin. You probably already know more about your book than you realize. The rest can emerge as you explore, experiment, and surprise yourself.

Start before you know what you’re doing.

Writing is much more than sitting at your laptop and getting words on the page.

Taking a walk, daydreaming, making a playlist, reading, napping, doodling, or talking through an idea can all count if they help you think about your book.

You are a human, not a robot. You need breaks—not only so you don't burn out, but so you can live your life and grow wise enough to write books.

I also think it's important to take your own preferences and interests seriously.

Choose a topic you can go deep on. Create a world you want to spend time in. Give yourself permission to write what you want to write.

Writing a book takes a different kind of energy from selling and marketing a book. When you're creating, try to forget what will happen when the book is done.

Focus on making the book.

Start small.

When you have limited time or you’re feeling overwhelmed by a big project, the size of the task can make it almost impossible to begin.

So make it smaller.

You don’t need to “write the book” today.

You might:

• brainstorm a character

• write a scene

• make a list

• experiment with a beginning

• write a summary

• try a different point of view

• journal about the project

• make a playlist

• sketch thumbnails

• record a voice memo

• figure out what you want to work on next

If you only have ten minutes, ten minutes counts.

I often start with a notebook rather than a Word document. You might prefer your phone, voice memos, index cards, or a digital workspace.

Whenever and wherever you work, it all counts as writing.

The important thing is to make it possible to begin.

Gather everything.

As you turn an idea into a book, choose a place to put everything.

It could be a notebook, a folder, Notion, a Word document, or even a box.

And when I say everything, I mean everything.

Write down the weird idea. Save the phrase you overheard. Keep the image that doesn't seem relevant yet. Make a list of possible titles. Write down the question that's bothering you. Save the article, photograph, song, or piece of research that made you think about the project in the first place.

You never know what magic you'll find when you go back through your notes.

At this stage, you're not supposed to know which ideas are important.

You're gathering.

Read like a writer.

Reading is one of the best ways to develop an intuitive understanding of the kind of book you're trying to write.

Read deep and wide.

Read books in your genre. Read books that are similar to your idea. Read books that are completely different. Go to the library and read a stack.

But don't just read as a reader.

Read like a writer.

Take notes on moments that feel magical or inspiring. Notice what pulls you into a book. Read the first sentence of several books and ask yourself which ones make you want to keep going.

Pay attention to what other writers are doing—but don't use their books as a blueprint.

You're in conversation with other writers. Eventually, the point is to show them who you are as a writer.

One of my favorite exercises is to find three books you love that are similar to your idea and ask:

What will be different about my book?

That's an important question.

You don’t have to invent something that has never existed before, but you do need to figure out what makes your particular version worth making.

Look outside of books for inspiration.

Sometimes the best way to develop a book idea is to stop thinking about books.

Take something that isn't a book—a song, a milkshake, a game, an app, a television character, a place—and imagine how you could translate it into a book.

You can also make something related to your book that isn't a book.

Make a playlist.

Create a collage.

Sketch.

Make a mood board.

Write a spell.

It might seem like you’re procrastinating, but these kinds of activities can help you approach your project sideways. They can reveal things you wouldn’t have discovered by sitting down and trying to write a chapter.

Let it be fun.

Find your touchstone.

Eventually, you’ll want to identify the things that feel essential to the book.

Make a list of books, phrases, moments, ideas, images, feelings, and words that will act as a touchstone during the writing process.

Come back to this list whenever you need help remembering what you're trying to create.

This is especially useful when you're deep into a draft and the book starts to feel messy.

Instead of asking, “How do I fix everything?” you can ask: What was I trying to make in the first place?

Your touchstone can help you find your way back.

Figure out what kind of book you’re writing.

Once you've gathered enough material, start looking for patterns.

What keeps coming up?

What are you most interested in?

What ideas seem to belong together?

Physically move your notes into groups if that helps. Cut and paste them into a document. Tear pages out of your notebook and put them into piles.

Get everything down, roughly in order.

This is when you begin to figure out what your book is about.

It is not the time to choose the perfect words for every sentence.

First figure out the big picture.

What kind of book are you writing?

Is it fiction or nonfiction?

What genre is it?

Is it character-driven or concept-driven?

Is it a memoir, novel, picture book, essay collection, practical book, poetry collection, or something else?

You don't necessarily need to know the answer immediately. But identifying the form can help you understand which questions to ask next.

Figure out who the book is about.

Every book has someone at its center—even if that person isn't technically the main character.

If you're writing fiction, who is your main character?

If you're writing nonfiction, the book might be about you, a particular person, or the reader.

Who is experiencing the book?

Who is changing?

Who is asking the questions?

Who has something at stake?

You don't need a complete character biography before you begin. Start by getting curious.

What might happen to this person?

How would they respond?

What would surprise them?

What would they notice?

What would they do that nobody else would do?

Make a list of things that could happen.

This is one of my favorite ways to get out of the pressure of writing a “good” draft.

Don’t write the story yet.

Make a list of things that could happen.

Then make another list.

What if the character did this?

What if they did the opposite?

What if everything went wrong?

What would be the most surprising thing that could happen?

What would be funny?

What would be terrible?

What would be beautiful?

You are exploring possibilities.

You don't have to commit to any of them yet.

And if you already know your character, think about how that particular character would respond to each scenario.

The goal isn't to find the right answer immediately.

The goal is to give yourself enough possibilities that something interesting can emerge.

Play with language.

Once you know more about the book, start noticing its particular language.

Invent a few words that could be unique to this book and its themes.

Collect phrases.

Make lists of words you love.

Try unusual combinations.

Experiment with the sound of the language.

You don't have to use any of it. You're creating a vocabulary for the world you're building.

This kind of play can help a book develop its own personality.

Write ten beginnings.

Don't assume you have to get the first line right.

Write ten versions.

Make one silly.

Make one poetic.

Make one formal.

Try a different point of view.

Try something cinematic.

Focus on a tiny detail.

Start in the middle of the action.

Write the version that seems completely wrong.

The point isn't to produce ten polished opening lines.

The point is to play around with the possibilities and surprise yourself.

Sometimes the tenth version will reveal something the first version couldn't.

And sometimes you'll realize that the best beginning is a combination of three different attempts.

Write ten endings.

Do the same thing with the ending.

Write ten versions.

You might not know exactly what your ending will be yet. That's okay.

In fact, experimenting with endings early in the process can help you understand what the book wants to become.

Once you have an ending—or even a vague idea of one—work backward.

If you know what the book will end with, or have some idea what the book is really about, can you plant a reference to those ideas near the beginning?

The beginning and ending don't need to match perfectly.

But they should feel like they belong to the same book.

Connect the dots.

Now you have pieces.

Ideas.

Characters.

Scenes.

Images.

Beginnings.

Endings.

Questions.

Possibilities.

It's time to connect the dots.

Imagine you're telling a story around a campfire or making up a bedtime story. Let images and feelings come to you naturally.

Don't worry about writing down the perfect version of the story yet.

Zoom out.

What happens first?

What happens next?

What changes?

What matters?

What does the reader need to know?

What can you leave out?

Keep working on paper—or whatever format helps you think—until you have enough of an outline that you understand the basic elements of the book.

Then you can write the first draft.

Write the first draft.

Eventually, you have to stop figuring out the book and actually write it.

But you don't have to write the perfect version.

A first draft is an experiment.

You're discovering what happens.

You're discovering what the book sounds like.

You're discovering what you're actually trying to say.

Give yourself permission to write badly.

Give yourself permission to write too much.

Give yourself permission to change your mind.

You can always revise.

The goal of a first draft is to give yourself something to work with.

And when you've finished it, celebrate.

Writing a book can take years. Much of the work is invisible, even to us, and it requires tremendous patience.

So celebrate along the way.

Finishing an outline is progress.

Finding the perfect title is progress.

Writing a sample chapter is progress.

Solving a problem that has been bothering you for six months is progress.

Don't wait until the book is published to acknowledge that you've accomplished something.

Step away.

Once you've written a draft, take some time away.

As much time as you can stand.

Do something else.

Think about something else.

Don’t look at the book.

A week is good. A month is even better.

When you come back, you’ll be able to see things you couldn't see while you were inside the work.

Before you start revising, write down everything you love about the book.

Summarize the story.

Remind yourself what it’s truly about.

Then read the manuscript with fresh eyes.

Revise with the same creative energy.

Revision doesn’t have to mean fixing everything that’s wrong.

It can be another opportunity to create.

In fact, I think it’s important to bring the same playful, creative energy to revision that you brought to the first draft.

Try something completely different.

Write a scene from scratch.

Change the point of view.

Cut a section you thought was essential.

Move things around.

Write a new ending.

Make the book stranger.

See what happens.

Sometimes the fastest way to discover what’s essential is to write the story again from scratch.

You may find yourself naturally keeping the things that matter most.

And when you compare the new version to the old one, you can see where the book has strayed from your original vision—and where it has become something better.

Write the book you actually want to write.

There is a lot of advice about writing.

There are templates and formulas and rules and checklists.

Some of them are useful.

But if you follow a checklist so closely that you stop paying attention to your own instincts, your writing can start to feel robotic.

Plot, character, theme, structure, and voice all matter. But they don't exist in isolation. Working on one element affects the others.

Your job isn’t to mechanically check each box.

Your job is to make something that feels alive.

Let yourself break a few rules.

Get weird.

Surprise yourself.

Ask “What if this is a good idea?”

Then see what happens.

Your experience matters. Your preferences matter. Your curiosity matters.

Bring a sense of play, wonder, and curiosity to the work.

How you write is just as important as what you write.

Don’t wait for the perfect conditions.

You may not have a beautiful office.

You may not have two uninterrupted hours every morning.

You may not even have the energy you wish you had.

That'‘sokay.

My own writing often happens at night or while I'm waiting for my son during OT or PT. I have a beautiful office, but I mostly use it for client work. My writing tends to happen in bed or in the car.

But it happens.

Work whenever and wherever you have the time and energy to write.

And when you finish, leave yourself a breadcrumb.

Write down what you want to work on next.

Keep a list of small tasks you can check off.

Stop writing before you get completely stuck.

That way, when you have another ten minutes, you don’t have to spend half of them figuring out where to begin.

You can just begin.

Find your people.

If you want to feel like a real writer, it helps to know other writers.

Not because you need to become friends with famous authors or figure out how to get to the front of the line for awards and events.

That’s not real life.

Find the writers who are working alongside you.

The people who understand what it's like to spend months on a project nobody else can see.

The people who will celebrate when you solve a problem.

The people who will read your work, share their own struggles, and cheer when something finally works.

Writing can be lonely.

It doesn’t have to be.

Your writing friends can become some of the most treasured people in your creative life.

Remember that the book is the point.

Eventually, if you're pursuing traditional publishing, your book will need sales copy.

You’ll need to explain what it's about.

Other people will need to understand the project.

Your agent may use that language. An editor may use it. Sales and marketing teams will use it. Book buyers will use it.

So practice describing your book in a couple of catchy, clear sentences.

Then ask yourself “Is the book actually about that?”

This is a surprisingly useful test.

Sometimes the sales copy reveals that you've been writing a different book than the one you thought you were writing.

That’s useful information.

Go back to the manuscript.

Figure out what the book really is.

Then keep going.

Start small. Keep going.

You don’t need to have the whole book figured out before you start.

You don’t need the perfect writing space.

You don’t need a flawless outline.

You don’t need to know exactly how the publishing process will work.

You need an idea and a willingness to follow it.

Gather your thoughts.

Read.

Play.

Make lists.

Experiment.

Write ten beginnings.

Write ten endings.

Connect the dots.

Write the draft.

Step away.

Come back.

Revise.

And start small again.

The writing process isn't always efficient. Sometimes the wandering is where the good stuff comes through.

You are full of creativity.

You know more than you think you do.

No one has this totally figured out.

So ask yourself what if this is a good idea?

Then see what happens.