A Note About the Time I Failed to Quit Writing
This entry turned out longer than expected. I had planned to write about a small piece of good writing news, but I found that the backstory was relevant, and important for me personally, to jot down. So here we go.
#
Once, before I understood query letters and the amount of effort required to edit a novel manuscript, I wrote and sent a manuscript to agents. Unsurprisingly, I received rejections and few responses. That was well over a decade ago.
Time passed. I learned more about the craft, and I wrote short stories, poems, novel manuscripts, and picture book manuscripts. A handful of short stories and poems were published, and about nine years back, an agent showed interest in one of my queries. While I was thrilled to be chatting with the agent, my life outside of writing was less than stellar. I had been making small-sized, medium-sized, and glorious-sized mistakes, as one does, and after a particularly glorious mistake that left me quite sad, I decided to quit writing. Cold turkey. I closed all of my files—almost deleted them—and I stopped sending the agent work. I believed writing was distracting me from dealing with my troubles, even causing them in some instances, and I became determined to build a stabler life of fewer mistakes.
#
Before I quit writing, I had followed the misguided idea that, if you wanted a career as an author, everything else in life—work, relationships, travels—had to be secondary, and a distant second at that. It did not matter if you found yourself living paycheck to paycheck and emptied your savings, as I mostly did; it did not matter until it did, and I wound quitting one of the things I loved most.
So, when I decided to build the aforementioned stabler life, that primarily meant finding steady work to support myself. I devoted myself to this endeavor, and having little experience in anything but making things up, I applied to nearly 100 openings. This earned me a handful of phone interviews and two in-person interviews—one of which I followed up with by mailing a Thank You postcard, except I mailed it back to myself, and the second of which I forgot my umbrella at. Perhaps because of a successful George Costanza maneuver, the latter hired me as one of two customer service agents at a travel tech startup. The entire application experience became a great reminder that, despite rejections, it only takes one yes.
#
I succeeded at not writing creatively for a year. Yay, me. However, ideas for stories and the desire to write never left, so I eventually allowed myself to restart—more like caved into restarting—but not without restrictions.
No longer would I write daily; no longer would I write for more than 30 minutes a session; and no longer would I write when friends invited me to events. I would have complete control over this creative outlet that I “once” loved, that had felt innate to me since I discovered it, and I set off, believing that I was happier when writing took a backseat to everything else. Having hindsight, I guess I enjoy spinning yarns to myself about my life, as much as I do about my characters’ lives.
Unsurprising to most reading this, my restrictions crumbled, but the breakdown was slow. Writing every few days became writing every other day became writing every day. A half hour of writing turned into an hour turned into two. Accepting most invites dwindled to accepting several dwindled to accepting some. What prolonged the collapse was my job. Focusing on building a career at the startup provided a wonderful distraction.
#
I enjoy my day job, and as mentioned earlier, I had little “professional” experience when I started. Since finding stability remained important to me, I dove into the work, treating the startup like college courses: I asked questions about everything, sat in meetings I barely understood a word of, asked to read business proposals, and worked nights and weekends to brainstorm and pitch my own ideas for the company. I heard, “No,” a lot at first, but thankfully I stuck to the notion that it only takes one person saying, “Yes.” Through all of this, I learned customer service, social media and email marketing, business development, partner relations, coding, product design, and more. My intense immersion lasted for about five years, before my body forced me to listen to my inner voice, the one telling me to write more; I say “forced,” because I developed a few physical health issues from stress, rarely allowing myself time to relax and do more of the things I loved—whereas I had once sacrificed too much for writing, I was now sacrificing too much for work.
Moving with the speed of the Tortoise, I began rebuilding my writing habit and confidence. After I had some shorter works published, I set myself the goal of writing another novel manuscript. This was in 2019, and in the blur of a month and a half, I hammered out the first draft of a story that I had been afraid to write; some of the themes frightened me, as they were too related to past mistakes, small-sized through glorious-sized. Typing, “The End,” was cathartic, and I believed I could rewrite, edit, and finish the novel within six months. Three years later, after typing, “The End,” on the final draft, talk about over promising and under delivering. What I failed to take into account were all of the bad writing lessons I had to unlearn, how many good lessons I had to learn, how much doubt from inexperience would impact me, and let’s not forget the pandemic, which really strong-armed me into focusing on my health.
All that said, while the project took longer than expected, I am overjoyed to say that not only did I wrap up the manuscript, I also queried a handful of agents last week. It feels surreal. It feels like I set out to climb a dragon-infested mountain, took numerous detours out of fear, but ultimately scaled to the top, because that is who I am. A writer. Since I first began writing, a few people in my life mentioned that I was a writer first, and whatever else I was doing second—even at my current job—and I am willing to accept that, again, albeit by also recognizing that I can be and am other things too; balance is a quality I’m constantly trying to improve. I will be packing all of the lessons I learned into my writing backpack, as I climb the mountain of my next novel manuscript, one I am excited to begin this week.
#
As to why any of this matters, why it was important for me to write a shortish retrospective, one of the newer, most important lessons in my backpack is to not fear failure. This includes not sweeping failures and mistakes under the rug. Whenever my confidence sank while writing the novel manuscript, I found myself emboldened to continue by listening to other creators discuss the struggles they overcame—many of these conversations can be found on The Bestseller Experiment podcast, which I will endlessly plug. Their stories reminded me that we are all human, sometimes orderly, sometimes messy, and for every beautiful thing we make, there are often beautiful disasters in their wake. Success is simply fewer mistakes, is simply perseverance, is simply a single yes away. I hope to add my voice to this conversation and inspire other creators, who find themselves stuck or beginning to stray.
#
Thanks to everyone who supports and supported me, directly or indirectly. I hope you enjoy the stories to come.