Writing vs. Publishing

I’ve only ever participated in one official run, a 10k fundraiser. I trained and raised money, and was excited—until I got to the starting line and was overwhelmed with the people and the noise. I’d been running on my own so to be surrounded by hordes of others was a lot. Still, I was conscious not to go out too hard or too fast, even as a part of me wanted to keep up with the rest. I got into my groove and did my own thing. 

Until I was run over. 

The fundraiser was a run/walk/bike event. One cyclist, a kid not watching where he was going, slammed into me. He shrieked an apology as he kept biking, and dammit, I was so close to finishing, I picked myself up and kept running. 

But this story isn’t about perseverance, though I had that. This story was how much I ended up not liking the “official” run. Battered and bruised—literally—I was relieved when it was over. I’ve never done it again. 

But I still run. I run for myself. Some days I like it, some days I don’t. And this is the analogy about writing that I’ve comes to live by. For me, the publishing world is like that “official” run; noisy and crowded—and dangerous! But the writing world is about what I like to do: write. Some days I like it, some days I don’t. But ultimately, it’s all for me. 

When Life Gets in the Way

My husband was on a business trip when he called to complain that his meetings had gone awry. As the organizer, he felt responsible, but the errors were beyond his control. He was not in charge of the facilities, so when there was a problem gaining access, it wasn’t his fault. He was not the IT expert, so when the computer network crashed, it was not his fault. Of course, he did his best to fix the problems, but by then his carefully crafted agenda had long since disappeared. 

I commiserated, because his experience feels like a metaphor for my own writing life. I try my best to make time to write, but the kids need an unexpected drive. I sit down at my computer, but the power goes out. I’m on a roll, but my invalid mother calls. Life is always against us writers—at least that’s what it feels like. No matter my best laid plans, no matter my clear organization, my carefully crafted agenda flies right out the window. 

But then I do what my husband did. I take a moment to vent (him to me, me to him). Then I regroup. Okay, I won’t get as much done, but I’ll get something done. Okay, I won’t get anything done today, but I’ll get something done tomorrow. 

Writing often falls to the bottom of our priority list, not the least of which is when everything else gets messed up. It sucks, but it happens. 

And then after that? After that, you get back to writing.

Someone Else’s Agenda

My daughter had to prepare a presentation for her work. She put in the time, effort and practice, then, the day before, the meeting was cancelled, with no plans to reschedule. 

She was frustrated. She’d worked hard, yet no one would see it. I can relate. As a novelist, I sit and write. I type my words and slowly I end up with a product about which I’m proud. Yet, like my daughter’s experience, my work often goes unseen. It’s not because it’s bad—either my daughter’s work or my writing—it’s just someone else’s agenda didn’t match ours. We send out queries and literary agents reply that it’s not what they’re looking for. Or we get turned down by editors and publishers because our work isn’t the right fit. If we self-publish, we struggle to find our readers. We havewhat it takes: perseverance, skill, talent, a good story—but that’s not always enough. 

That’s a hard pill to swallow. No matter that we do everything right—the way my daughter did in her job—still, it doesn’t always work out the way we want. The lesson: at least you did it. It doesn’t always feel comforting in the moment, but when it comes to my writing, it’s what finally lives within me. Yes, maybe my writing doesn’t (yet) match up to someone else’s agenda, but at least I did it. It’s there, ready and waiting for when the time comes when the right fit does come along.

Give Yourself a Break

Ever seen a toddler race in the Olympics? Yeah, me neither. It’s a cute thought, right? But one we’d never expect in reality. How could a little person, just learning to walk, compete with grown adults, athletes, who have trained specifically for their event for years? 

And yet, we writers do it all the time. When we sit down to write our first draft—especially if it’s our first book—we think we should be able to keep up with the best. The books already out there, the bestsellers and prize winners. The published, finished products. 

But we’re not being fair to ourselves. When you’ve never written a book before—hell, even if you’ve written a dozen, you’ve never written this new one before—you’re starting out. Getting your race legs, if you will. You’re the equivalent of a little person learning a new skill. So why do we think we can go for gold the first time out? Why do we think our first draft has to be publishable quality from the start? 

Like a toddler, who grows into a child, then teen, then adult, who practices and trains, and works with coaches and fellow athletes, we, too, can get there. But not right away. Give yourself time. Give yourself training. Give yourself a break. 

The Secret

When you start something new, it’s easy to feel like an idiot. You may stumble and flail, and show your ignorance. It’s true that many veterans may condescend to new people learning the endeavor. If you’re lucky, you’ll find caring, supportive experts who remember what it was like to be new themselves and help guide you. But the inherent fear of judgment remains. 

Writing is no different, made even worse by the fact that there is no one right way. How do you figure it out? Who do you listen to? How do you learn? 

By diving in with a different perspective. Instead of thinking about how little you know, consider that every step you take is leading you to unveil a secret. Your secret. How you write. Your process may be hidden from you, but that’s what your learning curve is all about. It’s about gathering tips and tools that others have used then try them to excavate your own secret. With this mindset, you step away from the “I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing” anxiety and into the “I’m-curious-to-find-my-own-answers” attitude. 

It sets you on a path of exploration. I’m going to see what others do and then find out if it’s right for me is a lot different than Am I doing this right or am I making a fool of myself?

Unearthing your own secrets of how to write can be hard, but this mindset allows you to go into something new with a confidence that you’re finding your way and your way is valid. 

Give Up Your Goals

Here’s a radical idea: give up your goals. 

Seriously. 

I didn’t say give up writing, but what if we gave up our “finish line”? By definition, that finish line is in the future, whether it be completing a manuscript or making the bestseller list, and it hasn’t happened yet. If we bank all our energy on that goal, we’re focused on future happiness (i.e.: when the goal is met). Only, the future is always out of reach. Even when (if?) we meet our goal, it’s often only a temporary high. We then plan our next goal, and then the next, setting ourselves up to never be satisfied. 

So, what, just give up, Jen?

No. Instead, reframe the idea of “goals” into “guesses”. Goals give you tunnel vision—you focus on only one thing—but guesses are flexible. Guesses are open-minded. Guesses are, “let’s try this and see what happens. Let’s try to finish a manuscript. Let’s try to get it published. Let’s try to enjoy the journey.” And if it doesn’t work? It’s easy to shift your guess. It’s shifting your exclamation mark (“dammit, I’m going to do it!”) into a question (“is this how I can do it?”). One sets you up for failure. The other sets you up for experimentation. One forces you on a certain path; the other offers you opportunities you may otherwise have missed. 

Giving up your goals is not about giving up your dreams: it’s about giving up on the stress they cause, instead.

Puzzling Out Mosaics

I stumbled across a beautiful café, featuring the owner’s mosaics. Even the tables were inlaid with her gorgeous work. That’s when I realized the artist had done what I do as a writer: create a variety of different pieces (her, art; me, story) and put them together in a creative manner. 

I had always envisioned those pieces of a story as puzzle pieces. As writers, we take the time to create each piece (character, plot, setting, etc). Then we work on how they’ll fit together. It’s a challenge, of course, since we don’t often have a finished picture to work from. 

But what if our story-building process is less like a puzzle and more like a mosaic? A puzzle suggests there’s one right way. All the pieces have their place. A mosaic suggests the possibility of multiple ways of making meaning. I’d always liked the puzzle analogy because of the idea of “fit”. For example, you can’t jam two characters together who aren’t supposed to be in the same scene. But if you think of moving mosaic tiles around to create your image, you have more flexibility. 

Writing is all about shifting perspectives—and it’s not just for the reader. Mosaics are beautiful; my writing process can be, too. 

Consumers Vs Creators

I was chatting with a friend recently, who had begun to paint again after a long absence from her art. 

She explained she felt she had been consuming a lot—news, information, social media—and it was getting her down. “I didn’t want to consume anymore. I wanted to create.”

Isn’t that why we write? Yes, absolutely, we consume other people’s stories—as we hope they’ll do ours—but if our love of stories was only about consumption, well, then, we’d be solely readers, not writers. 

And it’s the underlying fulfillment of creation that also struck me. It’s not that we can’t enjoy other people’s stories, but we feel, on some level, in some way, fulfilled by writing. By creating. By coming up with something that has never before seen the light of day. We’re weaving magic with our own imaginations—for us. Because, let’s face it, if it were strictly for the consumer—the reader—we’d pack up our pens in a heartbeat. Given the long odds of publishing, marketing, visibility and discoverability, few writers set out, as their only goal, to churn out a product to make money. 

In the writing world where traction is hard to get, it’s heartening to remember that we’re not simply consumers, we’re creators. 

That, to me, is worth picking up my pen. 

Adding Fun to Our Writing

I read an article about how a woman, after a frustrating commute in Boston, began a campaign to have the public transit system install googly eyes on its trains. 

Googly eyes. On trains. 

And it worked! Boston now decals on some trains that look like eyes. Just for fun. To brighten riders’ days. 

Cute, I thought, and that was the end of that. 

A few days later, my daughter opens the fridge and sees a new carton of milk, with half of it covered in a minion’s face. 

She stops and stares. “Oh my god, that just made my day,” she smiled.

I had to stop and think. I was the one who had bought the milk. I noted the minion, but that was it. I placed the carton in the fridge, yet thought nothing more of it. Now, though, after my daughter’s comment, I can’t help but smile every time I open the fridge. 

The two happy-face stories got me thinking about what we put into our own stories. Even if we’re writing the most angsty, horrific, trauma-laden story, we can often find a spark of levity, a hint of light. We need to, even if it’s a flash, even if it’s only temporary, because light and hope—and a smile—are still a part of our human experience. 

So look at your stories with a critical eye—for fun. Where can you add a hint of whimsy? A dash of silly? 

How, in other words, can you make your reader smile? 

Problem Exploration

I came across this concept of “problem exploration”. It’s the exact opposite of problem-solving, the default mindset we’re most often taught. It’s about taking the time to examine a problem from all different angles—not with the focus of finding the “right” way to “solve” it, but opening up the possibilities of how your problem may not be a problem. 

I love this shift in perspective. If I’m trying to brainstorm an outline—and you know that plot is always my weakness—I often feel like I’m struggling to find the right “fit”. What action or event should I add to make sure my character and story evolve? This whole time I have the end goal in mind. I want my character here. How do I get them here? That’s one way, absolutely, but what if I take the time to explore why my character needs to get “here”? What if I look at how my secondary characters might get “here” and how I could apply that to my protagonist? When started to look at my problems as something to explore, rather than solve, I started to shed some of my writing anxiety. 

There is no magic bullet for an easy writing life. This strategy may or may not work for you, but maybe it’s worth a shot. Because, as I was reminded of advice my father would often give me, “They’re not problems—they’re opportunities.”

What opportunity can you extract from your problem exploration?