Great expectations

When I graduated from my writing program, I had them — great expectations. I thought, “Okay, I’ve taken all the relevant steps. I’ll submit my work, land an agent, get a book deal, see myself on a shelf at Barnes & Noble.” Done, done, and done. The universe said, “No, no, and no.”

Actually, I did land an agent, and she seemed to have great expectations herself — for me, for my novel, for my future, yadda yadda. I was young and had no reason to be dubious. I assumed I would be making a living off fiction in no time. I envisioned traveling the country, reading at bookstores, fulfilling requests for signed copies of my book.

This was not so though.

After taking a year off (from what, I don’t know; I was kind of floundering at the time) to dedicate myself to revisions, my agent said she didn’t think my book was marketable enough, whatever that means. I was crushed.

For a long time, I claimed to have given up on writing. Of course, that was bullshit. Writing is part of who I am; always has been. It’s not in me to not write. I moved on to new projects, new agents, and new expectations. That led to new disappointments and new declarations of giving up on writing. It was a vicious cycle.

I think I’ve finally figured it out now. I’ve learned to detach from any outcome with my writing; I just write. It’s like it was when I was a little kid, writing stories for the pure joy of writing stories. I didn’t imagine a destination for them beyond the pages directly in front of me. There were no pressures to publish, no mention of income. That mentality is what makes me happy.

It’s like T.S. Eliot writes in “East Coker”:

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing

That’s not to say I don’t want to publish a book. I do. The left side of my brain is fairly strong and I delegate the business-related part of my writing to that. That side can make spreadsheets of agents to contact, deadlines to meet. And, when necessary, it can go completely quiet because the right side of my brain insists.

The thing is, I’m quite sure publishing won’t “complete me” in any way. That’s liberating to realize. It would be amazing to share my writing with a larger public, to have conversations with people about it. It’s who I am, after all. Even though it’s fiction, my greatest fears, hopes, and dreams are all over what I write. And, sometimes, I want others to know those fears, hopes, and dreams, to assure me that I’m not alone. That, to me, is what books are all about.