Writer’s Burnout: The Emotional Cost of Finishing a Novel

Yesterday, I barely finished Romance Writer’s of America’s eight-month Pen to Paper program. Today, I woke up floundering in a dizzying fugue of relief, irritation, and self-pity. Burnout.

I silenced the alarm, dragged myself out of bed, and finally surrendered to a craving I’d been fighting for a month: peanut butter and honey sandwiches.

I decided to skip out on Sunday morning writing sprints—because why bother—and headed to the kitchen without brushing my teeth—because why bother—in minutes, peanut butter and bread would be cementing them to my cheeks. And why even get dressed? I wasn’t going anywhere. Wasn’t doing anything, except muddle around mindlessly in Canva until it was time to take a nap.

I was in a mood. It hits me a few times a year, usually when it’s cold outside, and always after a long stretch of prolonged stress and mental exhaustion. The past six months were grueling, and I was tired, discouraged, and all I wanted to do was eat sugar-laced sandwiches in my pajamas and sleep for days on end. And write? God, no. I’d had enough.

Eight months ago, I had a brilliant premise for a brilliant dystopian romance novel with brilliant, award-winning characters. Now? I hated writing. Hated the book. Hated the story. And I hated the characters and the depressing little fictional universe I’d painstakingly crafted for them. I hated all of it. Fortunately, I was done writing. Forever. Or, at least, that had been my plan.

The day didn’t unfold as I’d intended. Upon arriving in the kitchen, I remembered I’d finished off the last of the bread and peanut butter at 4 a.m.—yet another endless night working at the laptop and creating absolutely nothing. Just seeing the peanut butter jar balanced on top of the overflowing trash nearly made me weep, and the empty coffee container gutted what little was left of my will to go on.

I shuffled to the living room. Flopped in my chair. Threw a hateful glare at the laptop. The damn thing churned my stomach. Self-defeating internal dialogue ran on a loop. I’m exhausted. I’ll never finish this novel. I’ll never measure up to my own impossible standards. Why bother? I suck. I quit. Just like I quit a dozen years ago . . .

A dozen years ago. Ugh.

I tried to change the subject. I don’t like thinking about twelve years ago. But too late—poof! Jeffe Kennedy arrived in my living room surrounded by a noxious cloud of indomitable regret. Thinking about twelve years ago always ends with Jeffe.

She first entered my orbit twelve years ago, and she’s been haunting me for nearly five. She shows up now, every time I quit writing, and urges me to keep going—even though we’ve never met. Or spoken. Or interacted. She doesn’t remember I exist.

I glanced at the laptop again. I hated the thing. I wondered if Jeffe Kennedy hated hers. I don’t know her, but probably not. Anyone who tracks their daily word count on a spreadsheet for years probably has a better relationship with their keyboard. Probably has healthier coping mechanisms, too.

Romance Writing Contests

By spring 2009, I had become serious [eye roll] about writing, and went on a full-blown contest bender. Not because I thought I had a shot at winning—I didn’t—but because someone said contests were a good way to get real feedback from publishing professionals. And I was starving for professional critiques. The kind that cut. Or kill you. The kind that makes you better.

So, I scoured the Romance Writers of America listings and targeted the ones with judges who sounded like they knew what an em-dash was. In other words, ones with editors from houses I recognized. I had no idea what I was doing. Worse, I didn’t know I didn’t know. If I’d grasped how wildly unskilled I was, I never would’ve entered any of them. Life Lesson Number One.

I didn’t know “writing craft” was a thing. I didn’t know the terms Goal, Motivation, and Conflict. Or Structure. Or PoV. I didn’t know there were rubrics for contests. I didn’t know to have my contest entries professionally edited before submitting them. And I didn’t know a writer like Jeffe Kennedy could be lurking in the contest slush piles. I just wanted those critiques. Naively, I sent off my baby manuscript like a lamb to slaughter. I figured I’d get shredded. That was the point. I felt brave.

A few months later, preliminary results came back. I’d finaled in two of four contests. My first thought was not, “I’m awesome!” My first thought was, “The other writers must really stink if I’d beaten them. Maybe only three people entered. Maybe the real contenders’ entries got lost in cyberspace.” Or maybe I have hidden talent. No—more likely I was delusional. All these years later, those reruns are still on syndication.

Winners were announced in a month. I’d taken First in one, Third in another. I reread the notification emails like they might self-correct. Double-checked that they were actually meant for me. Amazingly, they were.

The judges’ comments and suggestions for revision were invaluable. I told myself I’d revise immediately to build on the momentum, and to aim even higher. Instead, I blacked out. Not literally—just creatively.

Writing was hard, and I was tired. Deeply tired. I’d take a break, then pick back up in a month to give myself a chance to breathe. Nap for a few weeks. Or maybe finish grad school. Or stare into the middle distance and reevaluate every life decision I’d ever made.

By that point, I’d been in college for what felt like a geological era and still had a thesis looming. The thesis mattered more than the novel—or so I told myself. I needed to conserve energy if I wanted to graduate. Priorities, I said. Sanity, I said. Translate that as, “Not today, Satan. Not today.” I was on the ragged edge. I meant to come back to it. I always mean to.

I proceeded to ignore the email account I’d set up for my pen name for the rest of the summer. And I stopped tweaking the manuscript. Why even bother?

A Missed Opportunity

Later that year, when I finally opened my email, I found a surprise. I’d received notes from two women I didn’t know. I’d forgotten about one of the contests—Stroke of Midnight, from RWA’s erotic romance chapter. I’d taken 1st place in the sci-fi category. By that time, though, I barely cared. I didn’t realize how prestigious the contest was. I didn’t even look at the score sheets or critiques.

One email was from the contest coordinator, informing me of the win. The other was from someone named “Jeffe Kennedy.” I’d never heard of her.

It was a short message, congratulating me. She’d gotten Honorable Mention in the same category. Wow. Classy. It never occurred to me to congratulate the winners of the other contests I’d entered. I planned to write back to thank her. First, I Googled her.

No website (at least, not that I remember), and no romance novels that I could find. But there was some kind of literature award—with a title so long she probably had to take a breath in the middle of it—and a Ucross poetry fellowship. Poetry fellowship? Who knew what that even meant? It sounded important. I Googled it.

Dang. She must be smart. And talented. And, judging by the tone of her email, she had class and professionalism. A poetry fellowship also meant she took her craft seriously. She took steps and she worked hard. And she probably wasn’t a quitter.

I know all this now. But back then, I was in a nasty place. I was miserable in a world I’d created, hated, and felt incapable of escaping. Instead of admiring Jeffe Kennedy, I remember thinking something like: What the hell? Did she just wake up one morning and decide to start slumming? Got bored with fellowships and Doubleday awards—as one does—and now she’s switching to bondage and ménage? Step aside, lady. Go back to your iambic pentameter and ranch retreats. Let the serious smut writers handle the smut.

I didn’t reply to her email. I meant to, just to be polite. But one day turned into two days. Two days turned into two weeks. Two months. Ten years.

Bizarrely, in 2010, I got a request for a full from an editor. I have no idea how she got a partial because I’d never submitted one. I don’t remember her name or the publisher. I barely glanced at the signature line. I deleted the email.

I finished my thesis and graduated. And not long afterward, I flung the charred remains of my sanity into the barren wasteland inside my head—the dark void where all good intentions go to die. Then I quit. I. Just. Quit. My sanity languished in that void for a decade. I didn’t write. I couldn’t. I was so, so tired. I couldn’t even read. I forgot all about Jeffe Kennedy.

In 2016, I had a sudden flash of crazy and entered the same dusty manuscript into two more RWA contests. I won FF&P’s On the Far Side and took 2nd in The Sheila. A month or so later, I submitted a partial to a publisher, got a request for a full, but an ultimate rejection. Then I quit again. Why bother?

But Jeffe Kennedy didn’t quit. She kept going—with her class, and her skill, and her spreadsheets. In 2017, she won the Rita. The Academy Award of romance novels.

Life Lesson #1: Flying Blind and Somehow Soaring

You never really know what you’re capable of—until you try.

If I’d known what a Ucross Fellow was—and that I was up against one—I never would have entered the contest. Why set myself up for failure competing against a writer like that?

(From the Ucross website: Alumni include 10 Pulitzer Prize winners, 8 Tony winners, 2 Academy Awards, 2 Golden Globes, 1 Emmy, 1 poet laureate, and a bunch of National Book Awards.)

And now, 1 Rita. 😁

Life Lesson #2: The Cost of Quitting and the Power of Persistence

You can’t win if you quit.

A decade of loneliness and self-imposed isolation changed me. When I read about Jeffe’s Rita, I ate fistfuls of humble pie. My heart warmed for her—she'd earned it. She'd worked for success. She didn’t quit. She'd honed her craft, made connections, entered contests, and remained classy.

I’m not arrogant enough to think I would’ve won a Rita too, if I hadn't quit. In fact, based on my lifetime pattern, I probably wouldn’t have even entered the Rita at all—why bother? But here’s the thing that my ego won't let me forget: I once went head-to-head with a future Rita winner and Ucross Fellow... and I came out on top. I finaled in five of seven RWA contests at the height of their popularity. That’s not typical for a beginning writer.

Ultimately, the contests aren’t the point. I’m only writing about them to show the potential I so obviously had—but squandered. Burnout and lack of confidence tanked me.

I keep asking myself: What if I hadn’t quit? What if I’d spent the last twelve years honing my craft, making connections, entering the Rita . . . maybe even gaining a touch of class?
I’ll never know.

Conclusion: I’m Still Becoming

While the contests weren’t important, the two lessons I learned from them were. One reminds me, "You were better than you thought." The other whispers, "You might’ve been great, if you hadn’t quit."

I’ve wasted time. Years of it. I’ve pushed aside my dreams, disrespected my talent, and sabotaged my own momentum more times than I can count. I’ve let burnout win. I’ve let perfectionism wrap its cold fingers around my throat and called it discipline.

I didn’t win a Rita. I didn’t end up with a backlist of best-selling books, or a spreadsheet full of daily word counts. But the dream and need to write never died. Through it all, I’m still here. Still creating. Still fighting. Still wrestling with the same old demons, but at least now, I know their names. They haven’t gone anywhere. But neither have I.

Maybe that’s the best kind of class I can aim for now. Not the polished, poised, never-doubt-yourself kind. But the kind that keeps showing up, even when it’s messy. Even when it’s hard. Even when you’ve been writing for thirty-eight years, and you’re still trying to believe in your own damn voice.

I’m not who I was when I first started writing. And I’m not who I could’ve been if I hadn’t stopped. But I’m still becoming.

And I got nuthin’ but time and opportunity. Stick with me because my old pipe dream is still burning . . .

🖤 This work was originally published in a different form on the ROM-Critters blog (March 14, 2022). Updated and reworked by the author, May 2025.