Since 2011, completing at least one NaNoWriMo competition was a dream of mine. After writing two novels over the span of several months, last year I finally felt up to the challenge. I was right. Last November I wrote 50,014 words of This Dread Road, the third and final installment in my new adult women’s fiction trilogy The Bennett Series.

I was so proud of myself. Not only had I finally managed to complete the challenge, but I had done it during the same month my husband and I purchased a new home and moved.

For several months post-NaNo, I was convinced that every writer should participate in this challenge every single year, no excuses. But when I (finally) finished revisions on This Dread Road, I can look back and say with all manner of certainty that NaNoWriMo, while well-intentioned, did me far more harm than good.

Immediately following the challenge’s end, I experienced a horrific period of burnout. I never stopped working on This Dread Road because I was determined to see it released before year’s end, but there were several times I was tempted to call it quits. While the first half took me just over a month and a half to write, the second half took more than six months. For a long time, I didn’t care about the story anymore. Working on it — at times, even thinking about it — was painful and tortuous. I stopped worrying about whether I’d get it to my editor in time to publish it by December, and started worrying whether I’d get it to her at all.

In March, my husband and I visited South Carolina to celebrate our third wedding anniversary. That trip forced me to relax and rejuvenate, and also afforded me the opportunity to experience some of the real-life places (like the church pictured above) that play into the plot of This Dread Road.

It took another month after that trip to Charleston, but I finally finished the first draft. I was so happy when I typed THE END, so eternally grateful for NaNoWriMo. If I hadn’t written that 50,014 words in November, how much further behind schedule would I be?

But when I started the revision process, I was horrified by what I found. Those first 50,014 words were essentially useless — filler words, unnecessary characters, subplots I never took the time to flesh out. I could almost chart the ups and downs of my exhaustion by merely reading that first half.

I had to rewrite the first twenty-seven chapters. Twenty-seven chapters.

I don’t necessarily wish that I didn’t participate in NaNo last year. It was a fun experience. I enjoyed the camaraderie and solidarity with other writers. It was like finals week without the stress of grades. And you know what? I got a lot done. Had I not taken part in the challenge, I probably wouldn’t have taken a break this past summer to redesign all three of the covers for The Bennett Series. I wouldn’t have been able to let the time we spent in Charleston influence my descriptions. But most importantly, I wouldn’t have learned a valuable lesson:

What works for others doesn’t necessarily work for me.

Writers can learn a lot from Parenthood. Not actual parenthood, mind you, although I’m sure that also provides opportunities for creative growth. But for now, I’m talking about the TV show Parenthood.

Parenthood follows the Braverman family as they encounter the joys and tragedies of life, together and apart. Sounds boring, right? That’s what I thought at first, too.

Boy, was I wrong.

My husband and I started Parenthood last summer, just after I started my new job. Several of our friends recommended it to us, so we finally caved. After a few month-long hiatuses, we finally finished it this past June. The reason we had to take so many breaks from watching this show acts as the strongest evidence for its status as creative masterpiece.

We got too involved, too invested. We (okay, okay, I) couldn’t get through a single episode without ugly crying. The characters, with all their various issues and mistakes and complications, became a part of our lives.

So how can we novelists do this? What can we learn from the creators and writers of a television show to make the characters in our novels stand out?

Examples given below may include spoilers. Proceed at your own risk.

Make Your Characters Matter

The show revolves around the rather large Braverman clan. Here’s a brief snapshot of the family tree.

Zeek and his wife Camille serve as the heads of this family, presiding over the lives of their grown children, sometimes as welcome counselors, sometimes and unwelcome meddlers.

Adam is the eldest Braverman son. He and his wife Kristina have a teenage daughter, Haddie; a young son, Max; and a surprise baby, Nora.

Sarah is the eldest daughter. She and her ex-husband, Seth, have two teenagers, Amber and Drew Holt. Later in the show, Amber gives birth to a son, whom she names after Grandpa Zeek.

Crosby is the youngest son and generally regarded as the black sheep of the family. His one-time fling, Jasmine Trussell, introduces them to their son Jabbar when the boy is five — until then, he had no idea he was a father. Later, the two marry and have another child, daughter Aida.

Julia is the baby of the family. She and her husband Joel Graham have one biological daughter, Sydney. After struggling with infertility, they later adopt Victor, who is one year older than Sydney.

That’s a lot of characters, right? Twenty, by my count. And the crazy thing is that, with the exception of the youngest children, every single member of this family has a complete story arc. They’re all protagonists. Every single one of them.

Zeek learns to accept his own mortality and the ability of the family to carry on without him, while Camille learns what it means to love selflessly. Adam and Kristina both learn to let go — Adam, in the realm of finances and career goals, and Kristina, in her approach to parenting their autistic son. Sarah learns how to love herself and others, rather than getting hung up on her past failures. Crosby learns to tone down his rock-and-roll lifestyle and commit to Jasmine, who simultaneously learns how to back off and let her husband assume responsibility. Joel and Julia learn how to communicate and respect one another. And as the original five grandchildren age, they also assume the role of protagonist. With the exception of Haddie, who stops being a regular character when she leaves for Cornell in season four, they all have evocative, transformative storylines as well.

How novelists can use this:

Unless you’re Tolstoy, having so many major characters might be problematic, but there’s still something novelists can learn from the Parenthood model. Here’s the takeaway:

If you write a character into being, make sure they exist for a reason.

Pretend that for each character you create, you have to pay a $50 fine. With that in mind, do you really need to lend screen time to your protagonist’s five neighbors and their families? Does he or she really need to have three roommates, or could the story move on just the same with one?

Knock the number of these background characters down a little, instead focusing on giving each fictional personal an identity beyond their usefulness or hindrance to your protagonist. Almost anyone can make a cup of tea or be the vengeful ex currently keying your car, under the right circumstances. You might as well make the person who does these things interesting and complex in their own right, even if you’re the only person who ever knows the difference.

Make Your Characters Dynamic

As mentioned before, each of the Bravermans undergoes a massive transformation between series premiere and finale. Each of them, while maintaining their unique identities and personalities, have strengthened the way they handled or coped with their various struggles and issues. Zeek goes from being a hubristic, bombastic man intent on running the lives of his children forever to humbly admitting his flaws and accepting the limitations of his weakening, aging body. Camille goes from whimsical selfishness to sacrificing everything she has to care for her family.

Major characters need to be dynamic during the course of any story. Simply put: they need to change. Static characters, or those who remain the same throughout the story, have their place, but only as juxtaposition with dynamic characters. If you want readers to fall in love with the people you’ve created, write them as a river — ever moving and changing within the bounds of a strong, ever-present identity. Instead of coddling them and treating them to a perfect life, put your characters through a fire of refinement to burn off all those nasty imperfections.

They do have imperfections, right? Because that’s important.

Make Your Characters Flawed

Perfection is boring. Maybe that’s why Parenthood is so interesting. All the Bravermans have a list of flaws a mile long — Zeek is a blowhard, Camille a narcissist, Adam a control freak, Kristina a helicopter mom, Sarah a flake, Julia self-centered, Joel a coward, Crosby childish, Jasmine a nag . . . and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

I hated every character on this show at some point or another. But not as much as I loved them.

That’s the real brilliance of Parenthood. Because it’s a show about family, and at the end of the day, isn’t that what being in a family is like? It’s irritating and infuriating each other, but still showing love and grace when we need it the most. The writers of this show replicated this experience and injected the associated emotions into a television show, making viewers feel for these characters — if for only forty minutes at a time — what they felt for their own siblings and parents and nephews and cousin and uncles.

That’s kind of amazing.

Writers of fiction can replicate this brilliant accomplishment by creating characters who are equally lovable and flawed. Readers should be infuriated by characters’ mistakes, not because they hate them but because they care.

Real people aren’t all good or all bad. We’re all a mixture of both. That’s what makes us broken and beautiful. And that’s how our characters should be, too.

She grabbed her purse and fumbled around it desperately. Her hands were shaking so much she could barely control them, but her fingers finally closed over what she’d been looking for. She withdrew the small plastic bottle, removed the lid with a quick twist, and popped a tiny yellow circular pill into her mouth. She let it rest on her tongue for just a second before she swallowed and closed her eyes in gratitude, like a penitent receiving a communion wafer. The pill left a bitter taste on her tongue, but she didn’t care because she knew the unpleasant flavor heralded the arrival of chemical bliss. Her heart rate slowly but steadily lowered, and she found it easier to breathe.

When she opened her eyes, she found Cameron staring at her, the stubby piece of chalk dangling from his fingers and leaving smudges of powdery residue on his blue jeans. He didn’t look smug anymore. “You’re still dealing with that, then, huh?” he asked. His voice was soft and inviting, drawing her mind back to better times: a finger twirling through her shower-dampened hair, a copy of Herodotus’ Histories spread open across both their laps.
She shook her head. Now was not the time. “Sure am,” she said shortly. What else was there to say? She stuffed her midterm — the midterm she had failed — into her backpack and slung it over her shoulder, not bothering to zip it completely closed.

“Hattie.”

She looked up, and as their eyes met, she heard the question he hadn’t asked out loud. Who helps you with that now? She set her jaw in a firm line as she shot him a look. No one.

— The Partition of Africa ​

A question I usually field at author events, signings, and online communication is a simple one: “Why does Hattie have generalized anxiety disorder?”

This is not a bad question, especially considering that disorders like GAD don’t get much screen time, as it were, when it comes to contemporary Young Adult and New Adult literature. If mental health is addressed, the author usually follows the somewhat familiar paths of depression, addiction, suicide, and self-harm. These are all important facets of mental illness that we should all read about and try to understand.

But mental illness is more than those more extreme manifestations. It is more than someone being a danger to himself or others. Between the scope of “normal” and “dangerous” lies a whole host of problems that don’t seem to fit neatly into either category. The people who struggle here in this no man’s land often feel confused and alone, strung somewhere between “just fine” and falling apart.
​
People like me.

​I’ve always been a worrier.

Racing thoughts and infinite loops of “what ifs” have been my constant, unwelcome companion since childhood, riding my shoulder like a cartoon devil and whispering imagined calamitous possibilities into my soul. As a young child and teen, and even now sometimes as an adult, I find that the simplest hypotheticals can terrify me into a stupor.

As a child, I had no reason to question whether my mind behaved differently from those around me. Just as I took my nearsightedness in stride until about ten, when I casually asked my mother, “Why do we only see good out of our right eyes? Why are our left eyes so blurry?” I had no idea the way I felt and thought was not normal. So when the people I trusted told me not to worry so much, I tried my best to follow their directives. The guilt and stress of not being able to stop my reckless whirlwind of anxiety through sheer force of will nearly broke me.
​
My entire life was laced with anxiety. It was woven into the fibers of my spirit, soaked into the essence of my thoughts. I could not sleep. I could not connect with anyone. I could not withstand any measure of conflict without an almost physical pain. I could not stop eating. I could not stop crying. And still, I tried to stop worrying.

On a hot mid-September day in 2013, I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder.

I received this news with mixed emotions. On the one hand, knowing that doctors had a name for what I’d been experiencing my entire life was rather comforting. My failures in the “just stop worrying” department weren’t an expression of my inadequacy, just proof that I was different from the people around me.

On the other hand, I was mentally ill. This is not information anyone wants to receive, especially not a self-proclaimed control freak like myself. The medical confirmation that no, I could not exert control over my body, was a tough pill to swallow.

Had I been managing better on my own, I probably would have ignored the doctor’s diagnosis and walked away, but my anxiety had grown and developed during my years of attempted suppression. On top of the usual undercurrent of worry which ran constantly in the background of my thoughts, I was now experiencing panic attacks that were completely disrupting my life, which was why I was sitting in a doctor’s office in the first place.

After a near-sleepless night filled with lucid nightmares and an irrational fear of dying, I’d hyperventilated and nearly blacked out on my morning commute a few days prior. Parking on a narrow, litter-covered stretch of grass, surrounded by flashing lights and being hooked up to a portable EKG monitor is an experience I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

It was time to stop trying not to worry, and start trying to understand myself.

Learning the medical side of the monster that controlled my life for years was a long, strange process. It’s strange to know that things like nutrient levels, water intake, exercise levels, and amount of sleep can adjust the way your thoughts tumble around in your mind. It’s strange to know that your body can go through a cycle of anxiety when you’re not even really worried about anything at all.

​When I wrote The Partition of Africa, I was struggling to wean myself off my anxiety medication. While I knew there was no shame in treating anxiety with medication, the pills I’d been prescribed just weren’t working for me anymore. They neutralized my panic attacks and helped me sleep, but they were also warping my hormones and messing up my natural rhythms. At times, they caused more anxiety than they cured. I worried about withdrawals, dependency, and possible birth complications if I became pregnant while taking them. It was time to begin the quitting process.

I was desperate for someone to relate to during all this, someone fictional who would understand everything that I was going through. I’d already given Hattie my bookish tendencies, my control freakishness, and my shyness. I decided to give her my illness, as well.

I didn’t stop there. Gavin Reue has anxiety as well, although I don’t explicitly name it. Cameron Wolcott and Molly Marshall both have problems managing their anger. Claire James is a recovering alcoholic, former drug user, and suffers from depression.

At times, I wonder if giving my characters mental health problems was a wise idea. Not everyone struggles with issues like these, and I’m not exactly basing my plots around these illnesses. The stories would function without them, with a bit of tweaking.
​
But at the end of the day, I’m glad for siphoning this bit of myself into my characters, and for the opportunity to show what it’s like to experience mental illness. I want to show characters who suffer from mental illness and don’t try to harm others or themselves.

I want to show that mental illness doesn’t necessarily mean “crazy” or “dangerous.”

I want to give hope.

​This blog post is not meant to be taken as medical advice. I am not a doctor. If you are exhibiting symptoms of mental illness, please contact your primary care physician or search for a mental health care provider in your area here.

This post originally appeared on Miscellany by O.

Usually when we think about expectations holding us back, our minds immediately jump to low expectations, don’t they? A fish will only grow as large as its tank allows, and all that.

And the sentiment is completely true — if our goals are small, our accomplishments follow suit. It’s only math. But there’s another side of the problem, one that’s less discussed: the problem of high expectations.

If comparison is the thief of joy, expectation is joy’s murderer.

My husband established himself as a thoughtful gift giver right out of the gate. Valentine’s Day fell just three weeks after we made our relationship official, and in that small amount of time he somehow managed to secure a first American edition of my favorite book — The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe — which he wrapped in brown paper and twine to match the parcels Mr. Tumnus carries when he meets Lucy in the Wood.

He didn’t stop there, either. After treating me to a nice (and for broke college students, expensive) dinner at a local Italian place, he arranged for us to view Casablanca, one of my favorite films of all time, at a historic theater in downtown Birmingham.

My geeky little heart flew straight to Heaven.

But as time went on, my appreciation for his gift-giving prowess faded under the weight of skewered expectations. Because you see, when it came to the “traditional” boyfriend/fiancé/husband gifts, he isn’t so inclined. I can count on one hand the times he has given me flowers, and on one finger the times he’s given me flowers without being henpecked into it.

This lack of floral disposition bothered me, especially since I worked in an office with women whose husbands often sent dozens of long-stemmed red roses for everyone to admire. My husband was a kind, intelligent, thoughtful man — why couldn’t he have a natural inclination to send me roses, too? I didn’t even really like roses that much, but that seemed beside the point.

Before my eyes, this seed of minor irritation blossomed into a bouquet of full-blown bitterness. My incessant resentful nagging culminated in a lovely (overpriced) mixed arrangement of flowers, delivered in a quaint wicker basket on our first wedding anniversary.

The flowers were beautiful and I adored them, but something was missing. They lacked the warm fuzziness that usually accompanied his gifts, because they weren’t a token of affection. They were a negotiation tactic, offered by my emotionally exhausted husband in hopes of my approval. They were a white flag of surrender.

That day, I decided I would never nag my husband into buying me anything again. That day, I decided to be grateful for the things he chose to give me instead.

Because the truth is, I don’t even like flowers that much.

Sure, they’re nice, but they don’t do anything. They sit there, a momentary and extremely mortal decoration, and then they shrivel up and die.

My husband is a practical man. He wants to give me pretty things that aren’t just pretty. He wants to give me things I can use and enjoy for a long time. When he’s shopping for me he places special orders online, or makes several trips to multiple stores that are out of his way. The effort alone would mean so much more than a half-hearted, hen-pecked purchase of something neither of us really wanted. And the thing is, like I said in the beginning, he’s a fantastic gift giver.

He brought my flowers last Valentine’s Day. He paid nothing for them because they were leftover from a work-related promotion, and they were falling apart because he had to shove them in a box so he could bring them home on his motorcycle. Those are my favorite flowers.

Constantly re-evaluate your priorities. Have your expectations taken you higher than you were ever meant to travel? Have they been established in the wrong coordinates altogether? Whatever the answer may be, don’t let them prevent you from experiencing an even greater joy.

This piece originally appeared on Miscellany by O.

When I was a child, the saying “slow as Christmas” actually meant something to me. For someone with a single digit age, the twelve months passing from Christmas to Christmas might as well be twelve years. I remember how slowly each day passed as I mentally counted down to the blessed holiday from New Year’s Day, spring break, summer vacation, and Thanksgiving.

Even during the month of December, I found it difficult not to squirm. Moving our little stuffed mouse from one day to the next on the cloth Advent calendar hanging on the door was physically agonizing. I couldn’t wait for Christmas and all the joy the day symbolizes, which in that season of my life meant lots of baked goodies, family get-togethers, and more gifts than I knew what to do with.

As I age, “slow as Christmas” means less and less to me. My life is so busy and filled with activity that by the time I pause to check the date, I am astounded by how much time has passed me by. I’m more likely to say, “Christmas again, already?”

But today I feel a kinship with my younger self, a precocious child who thought she knew much more than she actually did. In the middle of what feels like the hottest summer my native Alabama has experienced in years, there is inside me a groaning, a yearning, an unresolved anticipation for the hope that Christmas brings. Once more, I wait for a child.

Motherhood has not always been my dream.

I’ve always found babies adorable and I loved my little brother and sister, but as the quintessential older child I much preferred the company of my books in the quiet solitude of my room to that of younger children. In high school and college, I went through a period of time when I decidedly did not want children. But when I met the man who is now my beloved husband of three and a half years, I almost immediately changed my mind.

We were eager for children right away, but our financial and living situations were not conducive to bringing new lives into the world. When we bought our first home last November, it was with joy that we officially began what we hoped would be a quick season of trying to conceive. We dreamily imagined spending the Christmas season of 2016 with a brand new baby of our own.

But eight months have now passed. The hope of watching our little son or daughter gaze in wide-eyed wonder at the hope and joy that is Christmas lights this year has long since died out. The time between that rather naïve moment of daydreaming and today is filled with empty plastic jars of prenatal vitamins, worn-out lists of possible baby names, and entirely too much money spent on plastic sticks that spelled out what my heart already knew to be true: not pregnant.

Patience is a virtue, and it is not one I naturally possess. I am the one who will volunteer to do a group project by myself if I feel my group members will slow me down. When I have a great birthday gift for my husband, I can’t wait to give it to him on the allotted day — I have to give it to him now. How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? Ask someone else. So you can imagine how I have reacted to this relatively short period of waiting and uncertainty.

I will admit, God’s silence on this matter has brought me to anger. It has brought me to tears. And yesterday, when I received yet another confirmation that my womb remains empty, I descended into both. After my husband left for work, I collapsed on my bed and, sobbing, I cried out in despair.

“Do you hear me?” I asked in silence, unable even to speak. “Are you listening?”

And — perhaps since this was the first time I have asked Him a direct question about this particular issue — He finally answered me.

It was not an answer I wanted.

It was not yes. It was not no. It was what I least wanted to hear.

“Are you listening to me?” He whispered in my heart, still gentle despite my rage. “I would not have given you a mother’s heart only to deny you the chance to be a mother. Hold on. Trust me. You, like all of my people, simply have to wait.”

Growing up, Lent and Advent were foreign to me.

I didn’t participate in either until my family joined a United Methodist congregation when I was in the tenth grade. As a teenager, even more impatient than I am now, I didn’t understand these seasons. Why were we expected to go through these periods of fasting and quiet mourning for the promise that has already been fulfilled?

But now as I think back over the blessings I’ve received in my twenty-five years of life, I am beginning to understand.

After puberty, I waited seven years for my first boyfriend and my first kiss. Both were fulfilled with the man I married. At the time, it seemed like forever. Now, it seems like nothing.

After I graduated college, I waited six months to find a job that would provide good benefits for myself and my new husband. At the time, it seemed like forever. Now, it seems like nothing.

After we married, we waited two and a half years to save up and buy a house. At the time, it seemed like forever. Now, it seems like nothing.

Sarah was an elderly woman before her promised son was born. Noah and his family waited out on the ark for forty days and forty nights. Jacob waited (and worked) for his beloved wife Rachel for fourteen years. The Israelites waited for freedom from slavery for four hundred years, and freedom from the desert for forty more. Caleb waited forty-five years to claim the land God had promised him. Humanity waited for thousands of years for the appearance of our Savior. And now, we spend thousands more as we await His return.

To our God, waiting is important. I don’t pretend to know why.

But what I do know is that I’m in good company, and the evidence shows that our God is faithful. He upholds His promises when His people are faithful in return.

So I will rejoice in this period of waiting, and to paraphrase one of my characters, when I am tempted to fear, I will instead rush headlong into His love. Because no matter how slowly Christmas approaches, it always comes on time.

This piece originally appeared on CarolynAstfalk.com.

Olivia Folmar Ard is a secretary, grad student, loving wife, and devoted Christian. Her new adult women’s fiction trilogy The Bennett Series addresses issues facing today’s generation while adhering to timeless moral principles. She and her husband live in central Alabama, where they attend Valleydale Baptist Church.

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