Six years ago today, I got my first book deal. I also had my first panic attack.
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Publishing was very hard for me, almost every single step. So hard, in fact, that I had a long crisis of identity with whether I even wanted to be an author.
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The first part to return to me was the writing.
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I knew I wanted to write. It took far longer to determine if I wanted to publish. Longer still to actually break through the wall of fear and actually get back to the work of writing. And then finally, finally: enjoying the writing.
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Will, then healing, then work, then wonder.
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Wonder came first, originally. First and second and third and last. All of it was wonder, the sheer thrill of creation, the rush of creativity and the power of decisions. Even the work and the will were, ultimately, chalked up to wonder.
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So it’s been a journey back to that. To loving the work I’m called to, to gratefully crafting the world and characters that will never be as perfect on paper as they are in my head. To remembering that writing is also for ME. In fact, writing with joy, knowing that the writing itself must be the reward because who knows if I will ever get published again? I’d like to. I hope to. That’s what I’m working toward. But it’s that question I’ve come back to over and over again in my life: if you knew you would not get published, would you still write?
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Yes.
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So here’s to six years of ups and downs and lessons upon lessons. Here’s to wonder.
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