Writing and Happiness, Part 2

As I wrote in my last blog, I think that writing improves my life and makes me happy… most of the time. There are also moments when it makes me anxious, depressed and discouraged. The doubts creep in and gnaw away at my satisfaction and joy.

I compare my work to that of other writers and decide it’s crap. I compare my career to other writers and feel like a failure. I get a rejection or a mediocre review and wonder if I should give up. A line closes that looked promising. An editor who was interested in one of my manuscripts moves to another publishing house and stops acquiring the kind of book I write. I find out my agent hasn’t sent out my manuscript to any editors.

I hear about another writer making a sale and/or getting a big advance. Other writers in my genre win awards. I check my sales ranking on Amazon. I check my royalties for the month and realize it’s barely enough to buy tea, let alone lunch.

I try to write in a different genre and struggle to find my story. I rewrite and revise. Submit to editors and agents and resubmit. Change direction. Try to reinvent myself. Finally, I admit it isn’t working and go back to the familiar.

I spend hundreds of dollars on ads and promotion and social media support but my sales remain abysmal. I hear about other writers writing a book every four months (three months, two months) and realize I’ll never get anywhere writing as slowly as I do. I realize my latest book cover doesn’t attract readers.

I realize I am a pedestrian, boring writer. I’m too wordy. I use too much exposition. I proof the audio version of one of my books and decide my story is far too long and tedious. People who are impressed to learn I’m an author quickly lose enthusiasm when they discover I write romance. They really back off when they find out I have sex scenes in my books.

My agent drops me. My publishing house drops me. I get a scathing rejection. One of my manuscripts interests an editor enough for them to call me and discuss my story. Ultimately, they reject it. I participate in a book signing and sell three books. Two books. Then it turns out the bookstore never even pays me for those that I sold.

My advances keep going down. My print runs keep going down. I realize the genre I love is no longer popular with readers. Authors whose writing I think is awful keep selling and selling and getting rave reviews.

I break genre rules and get harsh reviews and nasty letters from readers. I stay with an agent who is too lazy to send my manuscripts out to other houses and miss my chance to find a new publisher. I find out the editor who loves my work has been fired.

I calculate that based on what I earn for the time I put in, I’m making pennies per hour writing. Maybe pennies per day. I think about all the extra time I would have if I didn’t write. My house would be a lot cleaner and more organized. My husband would be happier. Maybe my kids would have had an easier time growing up. Maybe I wouldn’t have spent years being stressed and tired. Maybe I should quit now.

I stare at the blank screen and the words don’t come. My characters won’t speak to me. This story is thin and flat. This book is hopelessly flawed.

All of these things have happened to me. And more. I’ve gone through several “dark nights of the soul” regarding my writing. I have cried and agonized and lain awake for hours obsessing about the mistakes I’ve made. The missed opportunities. My worthlessness and lack of talent.

But for all this struggle and despair, I’ve also experienced dozens of exhilarating moments when the writing flowed and my characters came to life and it was… magical. The best feeling in the world. Like love. Great sex. What I imagine scoring a touchdown or winning a race must be like for an athlete. So, maybe I’m a writing junkie. I can’t stop because I love chasing that high.

I’ve also experienced some successes: The thrill of selling my first book. Getting my first cover. Having my first book signing. A trip to New York to meet my editor and my agent. Letters from readers who loved my books. Having my books translated into Russian, Dutch and German.

Maybe without those affirmations of my writing talent, the dark side would have won and I would have given up writing. But I don’t think so. I think writing satisfies some deep part of me. It connects me to other people and to the world. Writing is bigger than me. It is a part of me. It can cause me great anguish, but also bring me great joy.

The older I get, the more I focus on the sense of fulfillment the act of writing gives me, and ignore the external realities that threaten to derail my happiness. I can’t control those things, so there’s really no reason to worry about them. The only thing I can control is the actual writing. Writing is the thing that completes me and makes me whole. There is no turning back.