5 Things Painting the Bathroom Reminded Me about Writing a Novel

Photo by Ivan Samkov

Today’s post is by writer and editor Sarah Welch.

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Earlier this month, I painted our downstairs powder room.

I had never painted a room before, but I was sick of the plain white, haphazardly decorated space, and it seemed like a good place to try something bold.

As I was working, I realized I could draw a lot of parallels between painting the bathroom and writing a novel. You’ve probably heard me talk about the intersections between writing and other art forms once or a million times, but I’d never considered that a more practical variation of painting—walls as opposed to pictures—could apply, too. But sure enough, I quickly found myself facing very similar challenges to the ones I coach my writing clients through.

Here were my takeaways:

1. You can prep forever, but eventually you have to start.

I waited several days between prepping the bathroom and actually painting it. I’d taped off the edges, covered the floor and the mirror, wrapped the toilet and sink pedestals, and gathered my supplies. But then I just kept prepping. Maybe I should place the tape differently here. Maybe I should cover the toilet in a different way. Maybe I should…

What I needed to do was start painting. Would I inevitably have to adjust some of the prep work as I painted? Of course. But if I waited until I thought the prep was perfect, I would’ve likely ended up with a permanently taped- and drop-clothed guest bathroom. Which would’ve been awkward at the holidays.

I see novelists do this, too. Whether they’re researching a historic time period or fiddling with their outlines, it’s so easy to keep prepping and postpone writing. It feels safer that way, doesn’t it? If you never start painting, you don’t risk turning the bathroom a hideous shade of streaky awful. If you never start writing, you don’t risk your manuscript failing to live up to your vision.

Sure, getting started means potentially failing. But it also means giving yourself an opportunity to succeed. There will absolutely be tape lines to adjust and plot questions to answer along the way, and that’s okay. Sometimes you have to get into it—so it’s practical instead of theoretical—in order to see exactly how to get that prep work just right, anyway.

2. It’s tempting to edit as you go. It’s better (usually) if you don’t.

While I was tackling the first coat, I found myself constantly tempted to go back over spots that still had little white speckles showing under the paint. But I knew that doing that was likely to lead to splotches and streaks, so (for the most part) I refrained.

Same with writing, right? We’re tempted to make each scene and line and word perfect on the first try, which ultimately hinders us from finishing the story. I let those little speckles live on the wall until the second coat, and as authors, we can let imperfect wording, hollow descriptions, and even entire scenes stay as they are until it’s time to begin edits.

I will note that when my roller slipped and I accidentally slapped a bunch of navy paint onto the window, I stopped to clean that up right away before it dried. For authors, that paint on the window might equate to the realization that you’ve written yourself into a giant plot hole, or that a character has made an inauthentic decision that will take the story in a whole new direction. In that case, go head and redirect before your mistake impacts the next fifty pages.

3. While there are general “best practices,” there are a lot of “right” ways to do the job.

I did a lot of research before I got started (see point 1 about indefinite prep), and for the most part, I followed the best practices I read online. Cut in the corners, paint one wall at a time, etc. But there were some “rules” I encountered that I knew immediately I would be better off disregarding. One of those was a Reddit post claiming (very authoritatively) that a “tight space painter” was a waste of money, and anyone with a modicum of skill could paint behind a toilet or sink with a regular brush.

Now, I had never heard of a “tight space painter,” but I knew immediately from this post deriding them that I would need one, so I quickly added it to cart. And I’m so glad I did, because it alleviated my anxiety about some of the trickier parts of the paint job, and it made things so much easier in the end.

In my one-on-one sessions with members of my writing group, I constantly find myself giving authors permission to break the “rules” that they feel they must follow even when they hinder their writing practices. When a “tried and true” (or, at least, widely accepted) rule, guideline, or best practice is no longer serving you and your writing process, then that rule no longer applies. Throwing it out the window in favor of the tools or systems or processes that will make your work better and even—God forbid—more fun does not make you any less of a writer.

4. At a certain point, you have to stop before you make it worse.

For literally three days after I finished painting, I found myself rushing back out to the garage to grab the paint can and a tiny brush in order to fix an uneven line or a spot around the edge of the outlet cover, or even one or two of those darn white speckles that only showed up in a very specific light.

As I wiped wet paint off the base of the hand towel rod for the umpteenth time, I began to fear that this fixation on making it perfect would go the same way as those horror stories of people who cut their own hair and, in the process of trying to make their bangs even, wind up chopping them way too close. So, I finally decided it was time to call this project done.

Are there still imperfections? Sure. Did my husband ask me when I was going touch up the caulking below the baseboards behind the sink the other day? He did. Did I throttle him right then and there? No, and I’m very proud of myself for that restraint. The job is finished. It’s time to step away.

A few months ago, an Inkwell member asked me how she could be confident it was time to hand her latest draft over to a beta reader. She was having the same problem I had with the finished paint job—she just kept finding things to fix, and she couldn’t stop trying to fix them. I told her, “When you can’t tell whether you’re making things better or worse, it’s time to step away from the manuscript.” She was at the point where she was too close to it—she couldn’t see the big picture anymore, and she’d lost sight of her pride in the story. It was time. She gave the manuscript to her very first beta reader and, though she’d had to psych herself up to hit the “send” button, she breathed a huge sigh of relief.

5. The finished product is something to be immensely proud of.

Baseboard caulking and occasional speckle aside, the powder bath is now my favorite room in the house. (Is that weird? I accept it.) Not only do I love the way it turned out, but I feel a sense of pride every time I walk into that room and see what I accomplished. I did this! It was hard, and I was nervous, but I did it. And I’m proud of myself for it.

I hope that’s how every author I work with feels about their finished manuscripts, too. Whether you’re typing “the end” of your very first draft, submitting an edited draft to an agent, or uploading final files to self-publish, you have created something entirely new, and you should celebrate that accomplishment. It’s easy to focus on what you would change or what you haven’t accomplished, but isn’t it so much more rewarding acknowledge yourself for putting your all into a project and finishing it to the best of your abilities?

You did it! I’m proud of you, and I hope you’re proud of yourself.