At first glance, writing a novel and launching a product seem to belong to entirely different worlds. But having spent my career in tech, leading go-to-market strategy and helping early-stage ventures find their footing, I couldn’t help noticing how familiar the creative process felt. The blank page isn’t all that different and both are invitations to build, to explore, to test and to iterate.
When my manuscript was shortlisted for a major literary award, I felt something that’s hard to come by when you work in a field as fast-moving and feedback-light as tech: a deep sense of validation. Not because someone else said it was good, but because the process itself of drafting, revising, rethinking, listening had brought something into the world that could stand on its own.
There are a few lessons I’ve carried between these two worlds:
Start with what you know, then go deeper.
Writers are often told to write what they know. In tech, we say: build where you have domain expertise. In both cases, the point isn’t to limit your imagination, but to anchor it. My story began with my grandmother: her voice, her mannerisms, the way she told stories. But the real work began when I allowed myself to complicate her, to place her in conflict, to let her grow into someone new. In product terms, it’s not enough to understand the space; you have to let it challenge you, stretch you, demand more.
Be willing to abandon your favorite idea.
In my earliest drafts, I was so focused on honoring my grandmother’s memory that I lost sight of the narrative itself. One early reader (a brilliant but blunt friend) told me that while she admired the writing, the protagonist didn’t feel like a “hero,” and the story lacked tension. That feedback shook me. But it forced me to rework the entire structure, and ultimately made the book far stronger. I’ve seen the same pattern in product development countless times: a founder is convinced their initial idea is the one, but the market disagrees. The question becomes whether they can adapt, or whether their vision hardens into dogma.
Make the problem real.
For a long time, the central challenge of the book was simply that my grandmother (as I saw her) had no real flaw, no driving conflict. But stories need stakes. I had to weave in complexity, draw from history, and build a world where she would have something to struggle against. In go-to-market terms, this is where many early ideas fall short: they describe a solution, but not a problem. Without urgency, without friction, there's nothing to compel action whether from a reader, or a buyer.
Listen to feedback, even when it hurts.
I once worked with an editor who more or less fired me, saying the manuscript was too raw to be taken seriously. At the same time, others were returning it within days, telling me they couldn’t put it down. That tension between rejection and resonance is something every builder knows. The trick is learning when to trust the feedback, and when to hold your ground. In both fiction and tech, the process of filtering, absorbing, and acting on input is where the real craft lies.
Writing this novel reminded me that good work takes time - not just hours on the page, but months (and sometimes years) of rethinking, reframing, and returning to the heart of what you're trying to say. As someone who’s spent years helping others bring ideas to market, I’ve come to believe that the same skills apply whether you’re launching a company or telling a story: stay close to the problem, listen well, build with honesty, and don’t be afraid to begin again.