Essays
Dispatches From A Struggling Writer
My novel is coming along just fine, thank you.
Six months ago, I finished my first book. It took five years. Countless cancelled hangs, surrendering six figures in work income, and nothing less than the psychic surgery of a dozen meditation retreats to cultivate the creative foundation where I could write the truth about my early 20s.
I was sitting in the Knight Library at the University of Oregon in Eugene when it happened. As I italicized the closing quote, I discovered I had reached the end. For a moment, I sat stunned. Then, a powerful emotion washed over me and I put my head in my hands, whimper-sobbed exactly twice before rising from my seat, packing up my laptop, and walking home in the rain.
A few months prior, I had left my job as the director of a startup accelerator because I couldn’t bear the fact that the book was unfinished. It was like having a starving dog following me around. I could only ignore it for so long before the heartbreak became unbearable.
But now I had done it. Sure, the long road of publishing and promoting still lay ahead. But the creative itch was not cooled by completion. If anything, it grew stronger.
“The best way to promote your first book is to write another.” That was the wisdom I heard on all the self-publishing forums.
The idea for the next book came just a few weeks later, on the train home from another meditation retreat. I was pondering the formation of identity. Why I am the way I am. Stock-full of hardened beliefs, personality traits, and reactivities meted out by peers, mentors, parents, and the adolescent fermentation of my genetic stew.
Why not write a novel about it? I thought. I’ve always been fascinated by growing up. When the endless possibilities of who I could be were slowly whittled down into the narrow, sometimes disappointing reality of who I am.
So I began. I had a few months of cash runway left from my job, and I slashed expenses to the bone to try to stretch it longer. I wrote furiously, trying to finish the first draft before economic realities forced me back to wage work.
I DoorDashed in the evenings to slow the burn, and by March, I finished a very-rough, 200-page draft.
My indie publisher for God Money (the first book), Alexandria Press, set the publication date for April 2nd. For a month or two, I reasoned, I would set aside the novel and focus on book promotion. The small part of me that I permitted to dream off-leash began to fantasize about a huge launch. Thousands of sales, a movie deal, and the consequent grasping of the holy grail itself: making a decent living off of creative writing.
The day came. I announced the launch on every social media known to man. My secret weapon was TikTok. I had amassed nearly 100k followers during COVID and figured I could sell a few hundred copies there.
A week in? Ten copies sold. All to family and friends.
Wow! This selling books thing is HARD.
I had workshopped the manuscript in an MFA program, gotten a well-known literary agent to rep and help revise it (before ultimately parting ways). I knew it was good!
I’ve appeared on half a dozen podcasts, gone viral a few times on Substack notes, and flattered and cajoled every passing stranger who flashed even a fleeting interest in my work.
Two and a half months in: I’ve sold eighty copies.
But here’s the thing. I’ve never been happier in my life. Writing to me is about building a deeper relationship with myself and then inviting readers into that space. It takes enormous trust and intimacy. I reflected on what it takes for me to buy someone else’s book and devote a few days or a week to reading it. That’s a big ask! And it really has nothing to do with money.
In late April, I took a steadier job as a banquet server to help pay the bills. I’m rewriting the novel and promoting God Money at every opportunity. I’m in it for the long haul. Writing is the most difficult, beautiful thing in the world, and I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else.