Dark Night of the Soul

Reflect, retreat, rebound, repeat

Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash

Dear friends, family, followers, fans, colleagues, contemporaries, crushes, soulmates, sounding boards, and subscribers of Stock Fiction —

Hi.

For some of you, this is the first Stock Fiction post you’ve ever read. For others, it might be the fiftieth. And for a very small handful of you, it’s the one hundred and sixteenth (give or take because I un-published a few along the way).

When I joined Substack 20+ months ago, I did so for two “big picture” reasons:

1. To build the “platform” and “audience” that every writer needs

And—courtesy of some shoddy intel—

2. To make some money doing the thing I love and am pretty dang good at

Thanks to my unfiltered commentary above, you know that number two did not “pay off” so much.

New intel: Passion + talent alone doesn’t pay the bills.

And while I’m personally quite proud of my platform-building progress, my “numbers” are still not where they need to be to impress the almighty Gatekeepers. I also missed the quarter-life memo about marrying rich and/or having the kind of post-grad career odyssey that can double as financing/fuel for a sellable novel by a relative nobody. Because despite my boost in numbers, that’s what I still am. A relative nobody. An underdog. An “aspiring” author. An “unpublished” author. An “award-winning” author— Wait, what?

Bonus intel: Passion + talent + awards alone doesn’t hook literary agents.

Does any of this make sense? Nope. But what can I do but cling to my rapidly fading medals of honor and march toward the next big milestone/trophy/surge of potential notoriety?

But before I trudge tenaciously into that minefield of uncertainty, a moment of celebratory reflection is in order.

A little over a year ago, I published a post I called Mirror Moment wherein I took stock of my accomplishments during my first six months on Substack. It’s a very uplifting post, full of checked boxes and eager plans for continued growth and creative leap-taking.

I revisited that post before writing this one, and I’m glad I did. Because it showed me that while the last year was fraught with setbacks (personal and professional) and teeming with frustration and jealous rages and secret desires to quit full stop and never write another damn word, I still kept my eyes on the horizon I painted for myself in that six-month milestone post. And I checked a whole mess of new boxes in the process.

Here are a few that I’m proudest of:

☑️ Stock Fiction earned 45 more recommendations from writers on Substack, bringing the total to 58.

☑️ I published an additional 70+ short stories, poems, essays, humor rants, short films, and …

☑️ I successfully launched my own podcast. I’m on episode 6 with more on the way!

☑️ I created a professional website and started a YouTube channel.

☑️ I booked my first ever conference presenter spot!

☑️ I published my biggest and boldest novel on Wattpad.com, entered it for a shot at a 2023 Watty Award, along with 75,000 other entrants¹…

☑️ And won.

Rising action

Midpoints come with a lot of baggage for me. Everything that happened before becomes regrettable angst, and everything that might come to pass becomes potential disaster.

If I’m not careful with myself.

I’ve gotten in the habit of saying that my writing “career” started just shy of three years ago, when I invested in a conference that led to a writing course that led to me penning my first five novels in one calendar year.

I’ve also gotten in the habit of walking away from things (jobs, relationships, projects, passions) that have been really hard on me, mentally and emotionally, after about oh … three years.

So, by that calculation, this post should contain my letter of resignation from writing.

But hold up …

DID my writing career start just shy of three years ago at that conference?

Or did it start back in 2015, when I was home with two babies and started writing picture books, and then I joined the organization that hosted the conference I would later attend that would lead to the course that led to me writing my first five novels, one of which would be chosen an award-winner out of 75K others.

Or did it start in college, when while studying abroad I filled journals with voicey musings about my exploits in London and my all-consuming love affair with my stateside boyfriend (now husband), not to mention a shoebox full of hand-written letters teeming with poetry, humor, and🔥?

Or did it start in high school, in creative writing class, where I harnessed my feisty “young adult” voice?

Or in fourth grade, when I started flexing my satire muscles?

Or in third grade, when I won my first award for fiction?

Does it matter when my life-long career as a writer actually started?

Nope.

What matters, dear readers, is that it is far from over.

A is for allies

The best part of the last three years spent working toward a constantly moving goal post for success has been hands-down, no contest, without a doubt, 100% the PEOPLE I’ve met and the CONNECTIONS I’ve made. Not the strides I’ve taken or the milestones I’ve reached or even the skills I’ve mastered. That stuff’s just the icing on the cake.

What sets the last three years apart from all the other seasons of my creative life is the friendships I’ve made. I don’t know where these incredible people have been all my life, but they were worth the wait.

You guys know me well enough to know that as much as I don’t care for reporting my “numbers” because they shouldn’t matter, I also don’t like making “friend lists” because the individuals who would make those lists should already know who they are … and because I’m quite good at stealthily (or blatantly) and routinely letting them know how much I appreciate them.

I also appreciate everyone who’s reading and supporting this newsletter. You are more than a number to me. You are a season ticket holder to my repertory theater of creative experimentation with a backstage VIP pass to the green room where I occasionally throw diva-style tantrums and cry through a whole box of tissues over some gatekeeper’s scathing indifference.

Thanks for seeing me through all that.

The ordeal / Re-uniting with the mentor

As shiny as the last year-and-change looks in retrospect, I must admit, that for the past few months I’ve been really stuck. Paralyzed by “what ifs” and “why bothers” and “what fors” and “when will it all be enoughs”. I’ve stopped engaging with the work of my colleagues, contemporaries, and crushes. I’ve stopped showing up where they are, and I’ve stopped sharing in their celebrations. I’ve stopped trusting my instincts and I’ve stopped taking risks. I’ve blocked out my accomplishments and given front row seats to my failures. And worst of all, I’ve stopped writing … anything. And I’ve stopped believing that what I’m doing here matters to anyone, including myself.

It kinda feels like I quit.

And maybe I did.

For a moment.

Then I got an email. The last in a series of emails from a former teacher who’s leading a summer class. The last time I worked on my writing with this person’s guidance I wrote five novels in a year, so I didn’t have to question the trust I had in her to inspire me. And she was letting me know that while the class had officially started, it wasn’t too late to join.

Instead of shuffling past the email, as I had with the previous several, I read it. I clicked the link to get more information.

And I was informed.

The next morning, I paid my fee, signed on the proverbial dotted line, and immediately dove into the first week of exercises.

It feels really good to be back in school.

And it feels really good to be back in your inbox.

100 Things

Before this post reaches TLDR status, I wanted to share with you a snippet of an exercise I started today for my class. The exercise called for us to make a list of 100 things we want to achieve in the next five years. There were no rules about what types of things we’re allowed to want. They don’t have to fall in chronological order. They can be writing-related or personal. They can be small, results-based goals, or massive, dumbass, dreamy-eyed wishes.

Our instructor told us we would likely start this exercise thinking it would be easy, and then we’d hit a wall, which is why we have a full eight weeks to finish our lists – or as long as we need. I made it to twenty things before I ran out of steam. And I paused briefly to cry over number ten for a few minutes.

I’m going to share my first twenty wants with you today, because it scares me a little to share them. Because they reveal some vulnerability and some foolishness and a whole lot of yearning. And because I want to revisit this list in five years, and I want very much to share my progress with you then. Which means, I want to still be writing for you five years from now.

Which means … I want my job back.

1. Indie-publish a novel

2. Indie-publish a short story collection

3. Sell 500 copies of my indie-published novel

4. Sell 500 copies of my indie-published short story collection

5. Get a literary agent – a good one – that gets shit done

6. Get a book deal

7. Speak or present at 5 conferences or events

8. Reach 10,000 subscribers on Stock Fiction

9. Write “the novel” that gets me #5 and #6

10. Teach Ben and Julie to cook for themselves

11. Learn a new instrument – maybe the cello – Ben can teach me

12. Move to the Netherlands

13. Get a dog

14. Renovate the garage and build my dream office

15. Start a business that uses my skills and fills a need and fans my passion flames

16. Turn a profit doing it (the business, I mean, which will not be sex-related, despite that conveniently meeting all the criteria of #15)

17. Always be podcasting

18. Guest on three BIG NAME podcasts

19. Host three BIG NAME guests on MY podcast

20. Write a letter to Judy Blume

There you have it, folks. Pure, uncut heart’s desire, straight from the recently reinstated author’s mouth. Or pen. Or … fingertips, I guess.

If you’re still with me, just stick with me for a little while longer.

It’s going to be an amazing five years.

Yours truly and in fiction (poetry, humor, podcastery, and all the rest of it),

1. Yep. I looked it up.