The Solitary Saga of 'Ritual': A Writer's Descent into Madness, Mayhem, and Marketing.

Ah, the life of a writer.

 From the outside, it looks glamorous. Sipping coffee in some exotic locale, tapping away at a keyboard while inspiration flows like a fine vintage Bordeaux.

Ha! If only.

 Let me pull back the curtain on the birth of my sixth novel, Ritual, a beast that clawed its way out of my soul earlier this year. Everyone I've shared it with—friends, family, even the barista at my local warung in Bali—agrees it's the best thing I've ever penned. And yet, bringing it into the world felt less like a triumphant birth and more like wrestling a Komodo dragon in the pouring rain.

Perhaps it’s best if I start at the beginning.

 Picture this: Me, holed up in my Bali villa, surrounded by the incessant chatter of geckos and the distant hum of scooters going about their daily chores. For months, I was a hermit, emerging only for the morning coffee at a favourite warung to stare blankly at the ocean, hoping the waves would whisper a few plot twists. (It never did)

 Writing a novel is a solitary affair at the best of times, but this one? It demanded everything of me. The story—a tangled web of mayhem— had, over the months, consumed me. I'd wake at dawn, fuelled by black coffee strong enough to strip paint, and hammer out scenes until my fingers cramped and my eyes blurred.

 There were days when the words poured out like a monsoon downpour, vivid and unrelenting. I'd lose myself in the characters' worlds, feeling their triumphs and heartbreaks as if they were my own. But then, suddenly, came the droughts, those soul-crushing stretches where inspiration vanished like mist in the midday sun.

 I'd pace the veranda, muttering to myself, questioning every life choice that led me here. Why not take up something easier, like lion taming or quantum physics? Isolation gnawed at me. No colleagues to bounce ideas off, no water cooler chats. Just me, the blank page, and the ever-present fear that this two-year effort might be the one that flops.

As a prolific travel writer and contributor to numerous journals around the world, I've also become accustomed to producing pieces on Substack, my website paulvwalters.net, Bebee, and Medium—with tales of brief adventures and observations. In many ways, these are like writing ‘exercises’, something one can churn out in a day.  But a novel? It's a marathon in flip-flops, uphill both ways.

And then, the edit. Oh, dear reader, if the writing was lonely, the initial edit was a disaster of biblical proportions.

 My manuscript (first draft) was handed over to my newly discovered editor, naively hoping she would polish it into a glittering gem. After months of slow progress, what I received back was like a jigsaw puzzle assembled by a toddler in the dark. Sentences were mangled, plot points misplaced, and character arcs distorted. It was as if she'd run it through a blender set to "puree." 

 I remember gazing at the red-lined pages in horror, my heart sinking faster than a stone dropped into the ocean. How could this have happened? This was my baby, my masterpiece, and it had been butchered and then abandoned. Nights blurred into days as I struggled with the revisions, second-guessing every change, wondering if I'd lost my touch. I couldn't share this mess with anyone without risking their pity or, worse, their indifference.

 But salvation arrived, as it often does, from unexpected sources. Enter the rescuers: two new editors, sharp as tacks and twice as pointed. One, a seasoned professional from the literary trenches, dissected the manuscript with surgical precision, removing the dead weight and sewing up the wounds. The other, a fresh voice with an eye for narrative flow, filled it with energy I hadn't realised it was missing. Working with them was like emerging from a fog-covered mountain path into bright sunlight. 

 Emails flew back and forth, late-night Zoom calls bridged time zones (Bali's not exactly in sync with the world), and gradually, Ritual began to breathe again. Their insights were invaluable—subtle adjustments that elevated dialogue, developed characters, tightened pacing, and enriched themes. It wasn't easy; egos clashed, and compromises were made. But in the end, the book became stronger, sharper, a testament to the magic that happens when solitary creation meets collaborative fire.

If you're a writer reading this, heed my advice: find your editors early, treat them like royalty, and never underestimate the power of a fresh pair of eyes. With the manuscript finally in fighting shape, Strategic Books did their bit—printing it, listing it with Ingram for distribution—and then... well, nothing much really!  Promotion? That's on me, apparently.

And so began the torturous journey of hawking my work on social media. If writing was lonely, this was sheer purgatory. I'm no digital native; my idea of networking used to be chatting with fellow travellers in a dusty African lodge or sharing stories over arak in a Flores village. But now? Instagram, Facebook, TikTok—and soon, X (formerly Twitter, for those keeping score). Undaunted, I jumped in headfirst, armed with enthusiasm and no clue.

 Imagine me, struggling with apps like a tourist lost in a bustling market. How can you craft a compelling post that goes beyond simply asking "Buy my book, please!"? What's a hashtag, and why does it feel like shouting into the void?

 I began with simple things: snippets from Ritual, moody photographs of Bali sunsets paired with cryptic quotes, videos of me reading extracts against the ocean backdrop. The learning curve was steeper than hairpin bends on an alpine mountain. Algorithms? Engagement? Reels? It was a foreign language I repeatedly butchered. Some posts flopped, vanishing into the ether, while others unexpectedly gained traction—notifications pinging like slot machines, reviews trickling in on Amazon and Goodreads. "Gripping!" one read. "Your best yet!" cried another. Heartening, yes, but the grind? Soul-sapping. Scrolling endlessly, comparing myself to influencers with polished feeds and viral dances. A seasoned travel writer trying to succeed on TikTok? It's hilarious, really. Yet, there's a strange thrill—those dopamine hits from a like, connecting with a reader halfway across the world who "gets" your story.

 For the last six months, this promotion lark has eclipsed everything. I've hardly written a thing beyond captions and tweets. My Substack lies fallow, my BeBEE hive is quiet, and Medium is gathering digital dust.

But light pierces the gloom: in two weeks, Ritual launches officially at the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, moderated by the incomparable Erin Woodward of the Gloss Book club. This is uncharted territory for me—no previous book has snagged such a spotlight. Nerves? Abundant. Excitement? Overflowing. It's a chance to step out of the digital shadows and connect face-to-face, to see readers' eyes light up (or glaze over—fingers crossed for the former).

 So, why share all this? Because if you're out there, working away at your own manuscript or navigating the promotional maze, know you're not alone. Writing is a lonely journey, paved with doubt and detours, but it's also filled with those rare, euphoric moments when everything falls into place. The disastrous edits, the editorial rescues, the social media stumbles—they're the grit that polishes the pearl. Empathy, dear reader? I hope you've felt a pang. Recognition of the struggle? And, if Ritual calls to you, give it a try. Who knows? It might just be the ritual you need.

 But remember, in the words of a weary wordsmith: “If you don't go, you'll never know.”

 https://books2read.com/Ritual-Paul-V-Walters-

 Paul V. Walters is the internationally best-selling author of six novels, including the newly published Ritual. When not cocooned in laziness and procrastination at his house in Bali, he writes for several international travel and vox pop journals or struggles through social media posts.