Doing It Anyway
to write into the desk
At some point this summer the novel I spent seven years writing and revising is going out on submission. When I spoke to my agent about “going on sub” I was torn between asking dozens of detailed questions about what this process would be like and covering my ears. The intersection of making art and commerce is weird. I don’t like talking about it. I don’t even like thinking about it.
Mostly my Instagram algorithm alternates between showing me videos of labrador retriever puppies and ultramarathon content. Occasionally though, I’ll get stuck in a horrible loop of publishing videos. I’m sure these videos are helpful. I’m sure if I watched them I would learn useful tips. But I usually tap the “not interested” button and feel my heart rate spike.
Many aspects of being a working author and having a real book in the real world that I can hold in my own two real hands hold immense appeal. I love talking about writing and books and craft. Seeing one of the romance novels I published years ago on a shelf in a random Books A Million was thrilling. Knowing readers could get my book in a library, settle down on their couch, and meet the characters I’ve spent so much time thinking about brings me a little zap of joy. Publishing a book is vulnerable but that’s not the part that scares me.
Really, when I drill down on the part that feels terrifying it’s failure. Pushing something out into the world and watching it fall to its death.
I don’t remember who told me about the 100 Rejections. The premise is to put your work out there so much that you intentionally rack up 100 passes. For a while I kept track of my rejections in a spreadsheet. I got rejected from the same writing residency four summers in a row, including this summer. I watched as people I know celebrated their acceptance into this residency. I didn’t feel good. I felt like a loser. I was jealous. I want to be someone who learns from rejection but, in all honesty, it still just feels hard. Maybe I need to get my numbers up. Maybe my skin will get thicker. Maybe the lesson will come next summer when I try and fail again.
When I talk about my book being on submission I perform a sense of chill detachment. “Sometime this summer,” I’ll say, trying not to let a shrill panic infuse my voice. “I won’t think about it unless I get good news. It’s kind of a ‘Jesus take the wheel’ situation.” I’ll smile instead of grimace. “I’m just throwing myself into something new.” I don’t admit that starting a new project terrifies me.
The fear of failure is so big that I often wonder why I do it at all. If no one is going to read this book other than my writing group and my wife, why did I write it? When I teach creative writing, I talk about making art for art’s sake, but this is easier said than done. As much as I wish it weren’t true, writing in a vacuum doesn’t feel like enough. I don’t want to shout into the void. I want someone to hear me.
Caro Claire Burke, the author of the wildly successful novel Yesteryear, posted a love letter to the decade that came before on her Instagram. This was a publishing post on social media I found immensely helpful. It made me cry. If you didn’t click on the link I’ll tediously describe the post here. It’s a photo carousel of screenshots of rejections that anyone who has put their work out into the world will feel in their bones. It felt strangely healing to see these rejections all laid out, knowing they led to the final image in the post, a message telling the author her book has 742 holds at the New York Public Library. So much of rejection is lonely: getting an email that breaks your heart while you wait in line at the DMV, opening your Submittable page only to see a column of gray “declined” boxes, the little flip in your throat when you apply to something new thinking maybe only to be told no.
Maybe I’ll re-open the spreadsheet and add my most recent rejections. Maybe my book will die on submission. Maybe the next book I write will totally suck. But I will keep sitting down at my desk and jotting lines in the tiny notebooks I keep in every tote bag and fanny pack. I’ll keep doing it anyway because I don’t really have another choice. I’ll keep applying to that same writing residency. I don’t want to stop writing. So I won’t.