Remember, remember, the 5th of November, gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, ’twas his intent to blow up the King and the Parliament
Three score barrels of powder below poor old England to overthrow
By God’s providence he was catch’d with a dark lantern and burning match
Holler boys, holler boys, let the bells ring
Holler boys, holler boys, God save the King!
Every November, the scent of woodsmoke lingers in the air as a reminder that this is the season of bonfires. Long before we had electric light or central heating, people gathered around open flames to share warmth, food, and stories. Even now, there’s something about a fire that pulls us closer, both to one another and to ourselves.
A History of Flames
The most famous of these fires, at least in the English-speaking world, belongs to Guy Fawkes Night, or Bonfire Night, celebrated on November 5th. In 1605, Guy Fawkes and a group of conspirators attempted to blow up the English Parliament in what became known as the Gunpowder Plot. Their plan failed, and Fawkes was caught guarding the explosives beneath the House of Lords. In the aftermath, Londoners lit bonfires to celebrate the king’s safety, and the tradition took root.
Over the centuries, Bonfire Night evolved, losing much of its political edge and becoming more about community gatherings, fireworks, and the comforting ritual of standing in the glow of shared light on a dark autumn night. But the deeper symbolism remains. Bonfires mark transformation: the burning away of what’s old, the illumination of what’s hidden, the warmth of hope in the cold. And these transformations are protected within the stories we tell each other.
For writers, every new story begins with a spark. Sometimes it’s an image, a character, or a question that refuses to leave us alone. We follow that spark, hoping it will grow into something bright enough to illuminate an entire novel. But not every story catches fire the first time.
Some manuscripts burn brightly for a few chapters before the flames begin to fade. Others smolder for months or years, waiting beneath the ashes while we move on to other projects. Sometimes we abandon them because the plot doesn’t work, the characters won’t cooperate, or we’ve simply become different writers from the people we were when we first began.
I’ve been thinking about this lately because, for this year’s Rough Draft November, I’ve decided to return to an old manuscript. It’s a story I began years ago, one I loved enough to keep but couldn’t quite figure out how to finish. And although I’ve written many other books since then, this particular story has never entirely left me alone. Now I’m approaching it again, not as the writer who first imagined it, but as the writer I’ve become. And that changes everything.
Rekindling an Old Story
Anyone who has tended a bonfire knows that a fire doesn’t always need to be rebuilt from scratch. Sometimes the embers are still alive beneath the ashes. All they need is fresh kindling, a little oxygen, and someone willing to do the work. And I think old manuscripts can be like that.
Returning to an unfinished book doesn’t necessarily mean picking up where you left off. Sometimes it means keeping the original idea while changing everything around it. Characters develop new motivations. Old plotlines disappear. Themes that once seemed unimportant become the very heart of the story. And sometimes the hardest part is accepting that the book you wanted to write years ago isn’t necessarily the book you’re meant to write today.
For me, that’s both frightening and exciting. There’s something humbling about opening an old manuscript and discovering how much you’ve changed. But there’s also something wonderful about recognizing that the original spark is still there. Even after all this time.
A New Fire for November
This November, I’m not measuring my success solely by how many words I write. I’m also paying attention to whether the story is coming alive again. I’m giving myself permission to experiment, to discard what no longer works, and to follow unexpected ideas. I’m trying to remember that a rough draft is supposed to be rough. It’s a place for discovery, not perfection.
And perhaps that’s the real gift of returning to an old story. We don’t have to preserve every word we once wrote. We only have to discover what made us love the story in the first place. As the November evenings grow colder, I’ll be tending two fires: the occasional bonfire in our backyard and the quieter one burning on the pages of my manuscript.
I don’t know yet what this new draft will become. But I know the embers are still warm. And for now, that’s enough.
Tending Your Creative Fire During Rough Draft Challenge Month
As the days grow shorter, think of your creative work—whatever form it takes—as your own bonfire.
- Feed it with inspiration. Read something that sparks wonder or courage.
- Protect it from the wind of doubt. Don’t let criticism or comparison snuff it out.
- Share its warmth. Let your stories, your words, your light reach others who might need it.
November is not just a month to write new words or finish an old project. It’s a month of reflection, a time when the world seems to tilt toward darkness… and yet, we still light fires. Maybe that’s why bonfires feel so powerful to writers and readers alike. They remind us that creativity is an act of defiance against the cold. That even the smallest spark, tended with care, can light up the night.
