by Dame Devon

(This is a letter to me. To my younger self who dreams of holding her very first book in her hands and writing for a living, from the older me who has six books under contract and over 50 short story sales.)

Dear Me,

First, I want to thank you for being such a dreamer. Looking back, it amazes me that you thought you had a chance at this writing thing. You know all those times people told you to stop? You didn’t. Oh, you might have stalled a little, but you picked yourself up and kept going. Even when it meant you had to make sacrifices for it. Even when life was horrible and uncertain and you wanted to crawl in a box and hide.

And yes, you did crawl in a box. But you took your writing with you. You never gave up. You weren’t sure you’d ever make it. You knew you weren’t the best you could be yet. You just kept learning and writing, and trying to improve.

And you kept hoping.

But writing and learning and hoping wasn’t enough. You also finished your stories, learned how to rewrite, and then submitted them, no matter how uncertain you were.

Thank you. But you got some things wrong too.

You know how you thought that just as soon as you sold your first story, or got an agent, or sold your first book, that everything would be easy? You know how you thought that you wouldn’t feel so alone and doubtful and discouraged?

You know how you thought that finally, someone would nod and smile and say, “this is good, really good” and you would know you were a real writer and you wouldn’t have to worry about it any more? You would feel accomplished–like you’d arrived–and you’d be comforted that the next sale was a sure bet. You could relax and do this for ever and ever with less and less effort because you’d be a real writer and writing would be easier and life would be so much less horrible and uncertain.

That’s not going to happen.

Here’s what’s going to happen:

You’ll spend years worrying that you’ll never sell, or that you won’t sell to your dream markets. You’ll seek out critique partners and readers. Some of their comments will feel like a lifeline. Some of their comments will feel like a blow to the stomach. And some of their comments will help you improve your writing. But you won’t be able to tell the difference for awhile. Trust me, eventually, you’ll figure out how to sort through another person’s reaction to your work, and apply what will make your writing stronger.

Being a writer means you are a life-long student of writing. You will always have more to learn. Always.

Along the way you will lose objectivity of the quality of your writing. The rejections will pile up. (Sure, one rejection is fine–everyone gets one rejection–but it will be hundreds of rejections) Then you will do one of two things:

1. Believe the rejections are right and you are a horrible writer.

2. Believe the rejections are wrong and decide to never change a single thing about your writing, because someday those rejecters* are going to wail and gnash their teeth and eat their words when you make that ka-billion dollar sale and become more famous than peanut butter! (*hint, those rejecters won’t care one whit if you go on to become as famous as a sandwich spread. They’re busy people doing a hectic job. If you’re in this to prove other people wrong and get some kind of satisfaction out of rubbing their faces in it…uh…no.)

Or you might finally try choice number 3:

3. The rejections don’t matter. Let me say it again: Rejections don’t matter. They simply mean your story doesn’t fit the market it was sent to–yet. It’s not about you, so stop being such a drama queen. Markets change. And if you keep writing, your perception of the market will change too. Your stories will change and grow, which is good. You need them to grow. Besides, rejections won’t ever stop coming to you. You’ll still get them even after you’ve made that ka-billion dollar sale, so stop taking them so personally.

What you don’t know is that publishing is a big, grinding, powerful steam train that chugs along with hundreds of thousands of writers tapping away at their keyboards and bouncing around inside it. The train is filled with hundreds of thousands–no, make that millions–more people who are editors, agents, artists, sales force, book buyers, booksellers, accountants and readers. All of those people are bouncing along inside the publishing train and all of them are counting on you to get your stuff done, on time, to the very best of your ability without fail, no matter how horrible and confusing life gets. Once you hop on that crowded train, there is no room for excuses.

So here’s the last thing I’m going to tell you, dear Me. It might be one of the most important things you can learn before you make that sale, because it is one of the most important things you’ve reminded yourself after the sale:

Stop making excuses. Excuses kill a career. The only reason you’re making an excuse about your writing is because you’re uncomfortable with whatever decision you made–usually to not write, or not rewrite, or not finish something, or not send it out. Just do yourself a favor and make decisions every day for your writing. Make decisions for your career, not excuses. It’s OK to get derailed now and then–everybody does. It’s OK for a first draft to suck like the mother of all Hoovers. It is absolutely, perfectly fine to fail. But don’t make an excuse for it. Don’t blame someone else. Don’t blame something else. Don’t blame. Just own up to it, and get back to work.

And when that big publishing train comes rumbling by–jump on and hold tight. You’re going to be glad you stopped making excuses. You’re going to be glad you can handle rejection. You’re going to be glad that you know how to learn and grow and improve. You’re going to be glad you know how to work and get that work done even when life is horrible and confusing. Because once you’re on that crowded train, you’ll work longer and harder than you ever did when you were writing at the station, dreaming by the tracks.

love,

Me

P.S. Get some sleep and stop worrying so much about other writers’ advice and paths to publication. Walk your path. You’ll get there. I promise.

Related posts:

1. The Long Haul
2. Seriously
3. Argh!

Tags: Devon Monk, writing

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