Am I a Writer Now?

Right when I least expected it.

This is taped to wall over my desk.

Here’s the weird thing.

I completed my first publishing contract, and my publisher declined to sign me again. Then I spent almost two years trying to write a book that didn’t cross the finish line. Now I have a completed manuscript of a whole ‘nother idea, and I have no idea if it’s any good, or will get picked up by an editor, or published or anything. It’s weird and different and outside of my wheelhouse. So who fucking knows?

But okay—I was getting to the weird thing.

I have no contract, no release date, and a manuscript with dubious commercial potential—and yet I feel more like a capital W Writer now than I ever have. Ever. More than I did when my first book sold—at the time the novelty was so overwhelming that I had zero perspective on anything. And I had written one good book. One book did not make me a Writer.

I certainly feel more like a writer now than I did when either of my two books released. Release day, while exciting in a way, is also horribly fraught with impostor syndrome and anxiety and I-have-to-be-charming-and-talk-to-people-when-I’m-seething-with-nerves. It is the day that I perhaps felt most like a fraud, because everybody was looking at me and calling me an Author.

Anyway, now that I’ve finished this weird-ball book that’s not under contract and who knows what my agent will think of it, I actually feel like a real writer. Like maybe, maaaaaaybe I know a little bit about what I’m doing.

I was talking to my writing bestie about it, and I said, “counting this one, I’ve only written three books.” She begged to differ. She said I’ve written six, and reminded me that I co-wrote one with her. And the two that I shelved, then end-to-end rewrote into totally different stories? Those count as four. The one I spent two years on and it never wound up feeling like a book? That one counts too. Along with this one and the co-written one and the one I just finished. So seven.

Seven books.

And you know what? She’s right. If I make a bad sandwich, or a sandwich I don’t necessarily want anyone else to eat, it doesn’t mean I didn’t make a sandwich.

I feel like a Writer now because I saw this one through to the end, through obstacles and self-doubt. It is one thing in my life I am not half-assing. And I’ve got another idea waiting to be written. (I’m excited about this one, partly because I think it’s going to involve gods and not giving a fuck and cocktail recipes. Bee’s Knees is my current favorite.)

Sure, I could have done with some overnight success. I’d never say I wouldn’t have rather had a huge hit right out of the gate, but I didn’t. So what am I going to do, cry?

Yes, in fact. I did a good deal of crying. It’s all right to cry when you’re sad.

But then what? What comes after a big high followed by a crushing low? If writing hadn’t really been for me, I think I would have stopped. It certainly can’t logically be defended. The return on investment is laughable. If writing hadn’t been for me, the disappointment, not only of my first contract, but of my inability to write that next book would have been enough to kill the desire to try again. But it didn’t. I tried again. And again. And again.

And finally, at long, long last, I have something to show for it: a Miyazaki-meets-the-Nordic-wilderness, fantastical realism adventure with a little Guillermo del Toro thrown in. An homage to my beloved Finland, the archipelago, the summer, the sea, the sauna. I have a hero that triumphs not by going out hollering and fighting and attacking her destiny, but by being receptive, perceptive, still and strong. Why? Because I felt like it. Because I got tired of the valorization of action. Sometimes the best thing a person can do is sit still and notice, and people who are good at it see amazing things. Action springs from knowledge, otherwise you’re just flailing. And because maybe getting still and quiet and noticing what I actually wanted to write was what I needed to do.

So listen, if you’re in a place where things are frustrating as hell and nothing’s going your way, check in with yourself. Are you writing what you want to write? Is there a F.O.G. out there you’re missing? (That’s Fucking Opportunity for Growth—what I experienced after my option was turned down.) If so, then embrace that prickly, obnoxious creature and get on with it.

I hate the idea that adversity builds character but, at least in creative work, it does.

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If you’re looking for a writing group, join us on No Time to Write Club. Myself and academic author Tes Slominski hold twice-weekly writing sprints on Zoom, along with other supportive stuff for writers of all the things. Find us at notimetowriteclub.substack.com.