There’s a version of me—let’s call her ten-years-ago me—who once decided to write a book. At the time, it felt surreal. Like I was playing dress-up as a writer, prancing around in imaginary genius while placing demands on myself I didn’t understand. It was adorable. You know those movie scenes where someone obsesses over a project and lets their life spiral into chaos? Well, not to say I’m endorsing that lifestyle, but I get it now. Oh, do I get it.
I wanted that book to be my opus. I dreamed of writing something that would catapult me into a world where I felt whole, seen, vindicated, and wildly untethered. Spoiler alert: it didn’t work. But boy, did I try.
The Early Days: Delusion Meets Determination
Fueled by manic creative energy, I cranked out a draft in six months and followed it with another six months of edits. I even hired an editor—serendipitously discovered through a fringe friend—and it was pure magic. He made me feel like my work mattered, like I was onto something.
But then, because hubris is real, I decided my sprawling masterpiece was too much for one book. So, naturally, I split it into two. With zero knowledge of publishing, I set a self-imposed deadline, cobbled together a self-publishing platform with the help of my (then) husband, and put the first book out into the world.
Holy. Shit.
People either loved it or wanted me burned at the stake.
The Highs and the Hellish Lows
Some readers devoured it in a day, called me brave, and poured their hearts out in messages. Others? Let’s just say their reviews made me reconsider my entire existence. The harsh criticism dug deep. So deep, in fact, that I decided to take the book down and fix whatever had their panties in a bunch.
Enter Editor #2: a critical, ruthless, chaos-inspiring whirlwind out of Washington, D.C. If my first editor was magic, she was… a wake-up call. Her vision was to turn my two books into one epic, sprawling saga. Oh, and she demanded more content, specifically about my childhood. Did I want to revisit my childhood? Nope. Did I do it anyway? Of course. Because I believed that pushing through discomfort meant growth.
Spoiler alert: that book ballooned into a 180,000-word monster.
And when I finally sat down to read it, I hated it. It was the literary equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. I cried, dumped the editor, and spent months undoing everything she’d done. Then, because I apparently enjoy torture, I self-published again and submitted it for a Kirkus review.
Kirkus, in their infinite soul-crushing wisdom, told me it was “promising” but needed serious reworking. Cool. Thanks.
So, once again, I took it all down.
Life Happens, But the Ghosts Linger
Years passed. I ran marathons, did triathlons, got divorced, remarried, and lived my life. But the ghost of that failed project haunted me. My new husband, bless his frustrated heart, once shouted, “You’re a writer, not a dentist!” To which I replied, “Uh, I am a dentist. Writers are people with actual audiences and success.”
Translation: I was too ashamed to admit I felt like a failure.
Then, just before COVID, I stumbled across a writing coach online. On a whim, I reached out. Together, we tackled the mess, broke it back into two books, and—wait for it—finished both during the pandemic. It was magic. I was ecstatic. This was it: my redemption arc.
Except… it wasn’t.
Book Launches and the Sound of Crickets
Book one went out with an indie publisher. I hustled. I hired a PR rep, did interviews, built an online presence—and sold, like, four copies. Okay, maybe more than four, but that’s how it felt.
By the time book two was ready, I had an uneasy feeling. The publisher breezed through the edits, declared it good to go, and I submitted it to Kirkus for another review. (Yes, I never learn.) Without book one as a reference, the reviewer trashed book two into oblivion.
So, what did I do? I took everything down. Again.
And here’s the kicker: I was so paralyzed by the failure of these books that I couldn’t fathom starting another. I was stuck, tethered to my mess of a manuscript, convinced I’d never write again.
The Shift: Letting Go
Something changed about a month ago. I don’t know what—maybe Mercury was in retrograde, or the universe took pity on me—but I let go.
An idea I’d been chewing on for two years suddenly clicked. Over four days, I sketched out an entirely new book. And you know what? It felt amazing.
The messy, awful memoirs I’ve poured years into? They still exist, and some people still find them brilliant. But you know what? I don’t care anymore. I’m moving on. That damn Frozen song may be awful, but in this moment, it fits: Let it go.
To Fellow Writers: Laugh, Cry, Keep Going
If you’re stuck in the same cycle, I feel for you. Truly. It sucks. I don’t have answers, only hope. Maybe one magical day, you’ll break free too. Maybe you’ll laugh at yourself for clinging to something for a decade. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll realize that the mess brought you exactly where you needed to be.
Right here. Right now.
Thanks for reading. 😊
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