I.
I keep letting a piece of my identity wipe out and overshadow the whole rest of my identity.
II.
This is still nothing compared to the old dark days of OCD.
III.
Let nothing disturb you,
Let nothing frighten you,
All things are passing away:
God never changes.
Patience obtains all things
Whoever has God lacks nothing;
God alone suffices.
— St. Teresa of Avila
As many of you regular blog readers already know, I just recently set aside the novel I spent the last 14 months working on and decided to instead focus on a different story.
Today my editor emailed me with a new timeline: Salt Novel will likely be published in summer 2018.
On the one hand, this is such a relief. I’m tremendously grateful for an editor who cares so much about putting out a quality piece of literature that she’s willing to give me the space to make it the best it can be. So many publishers seem to demand a book a year from their authors, and my life is just not conducive to that kind of rushed production. I’m lucky.
On the other hand, one of my writer-friends just announced today his book deal for books #3 and #4. He debuted with me last year. His second book comes out this year. The third in 2017, and the fourth in 2018. And I can’t help but think, Wow, he will have four books out when my second one is published. There’s a little bit of envy there, yes.
I don’t know. I’d love to be prolific, but the stress of producing a book a year doesn’t feel worth it or even realistic for me. I am so glad for the extended timeline, but then I wonder 
if my career is going to be hampered by it.
Just sounding off tonight. Needed to type up my thoughts. Care to chime in?: do you get antsy when your favorite writers take a long time to write their books? Or do you appreciate it?
So, today is not actually the anniversary of my book deal. That was two days ago. But today is the day that I announced it on social media. And while congratulations and accolades were pouring in from all over, I was experiencing my first panic attack.
I’m still not sure if I should call those experiences in late 2013 panic attacks. They were certainly brought on by panic. And they were certainly extremely physical. If there’s a better way for me to label it, please let me know.
It’s weird to look back on it now. On this day in 2013, I talked to my beloved editor for the first time. It was a wonderful call. She told me how much she loved my characters and my story, how excited she was to work with me. And then, she mentioned– almost in passing– such a significant change to my story that, later that night, I experienced the most visceral, physical reaction I’ve maybe ever gone through.
Just another reminder how much social media lies. In my memory, I was replying to comments about how excited I was– while I was sobbing in my apartment, praying my guts out, my heart racing, my mind racing, everything racing.
This pattern would unfortunately continue for a few months. Finally, I talked to my psychiatrist about the panic, about how I wanted something– anything– that would reduce the physical reaction. That’s when I first got my prescription for Ativan (Lorezapam). I continue to take this very sparingly, usually just a few times a month, though sometimes more than once in a day.
This also prompted me to go back into therapy. I started meeting with Amanda, my darling therapist, who has been a voice of reason, a true supporter, and– best yet– someone who legitimately likes me. I am still meeting with her, although now it’s about once a month, whereas we used to meet once a week.
And here’s the thing: I survived. I learned how to communicate with my editor. I learned how we are partners. I took nearly all of her suggestions– but I held out on that one, the one thing that caused that first night of extreme panic. And in the end, I can truly say that I love my novel. I’m so happy with how it turned out, so proud of it.
I’ve learned such a tremendous amount about publishing and writing and myself over the last two years. And I’m not ashamed of the Ativan or of the therapy; how could I be ashamed of getting myself help when I recognized I needed it? I’ve learned how to partner with an editor. I’ve learned how and when to disagree with an editor. I’m a better, smarter person and a better, cleverer writer and have a better, clearer understanding of my emotional and chemical make-up.
The last two years were some of the hardest of my life. But some of the best.
Writing a novel is a long, difficult journey full of emotions. Some days I’m thrilled with my work; some days it disgusts me. Sometimes I feel a sort of writer’s high; often I am in a slump.
But amidst all the join and pain of writing, I experience this level of … discomfort. Discomfort is probably the best word for it.
I’ve been thinking a little bit about it, and I have a few random thoughts. Do you care if I use bullet points? Thanks.
Just some thoughts for you. Would love to hear if these ideas prompted any reaction in you.
Thanks for being lovely.
Sometimes when I explain developmental edits to people– big, big changes that my editor has requested; not your simple comma-goes-here edits but rewrite-this-ending type of changes– I get responses like these:
“They should just let you write the book you want to write!”
“That’s so sad they are changing your story.”
“I’d never let someone tell me how to write my own book.”
So I wanted to set the record straight.
These big ol’ nasty edits are making my novel so much better. They are taking my novel to a whole new level, one I could have never reached on my own. My story becomes better, strong, and even more special because of the feedback of my incredible team at Harper (and before that, because of my writing group and beta readers).
I am the novelist. This is still my story. But I am not disillusioned enough to think that I could make something so incredibly special alone.
The book I want to write? I want to write the very best book I’m capable of, and that’s what my team is helping me do. I may complain about the stress of revisions and the time that they take, but don’t be mistaken: I am overflowing with gratitude that people believe in my dusty story enough to make it shine.
Want to know more about my debut novel Truest? Click here!
Image credit: Jason Michael
Sometimes I think that there is no way I can actually write a book as good as the book I’m imagining in my head. It’s like everything starts to die when I commit it to the page.
But then sometimes I think that my book is so much more than I could dream of, like sitting down to write is what made it come alive.
I don’t know whether to grieve or celebrate, so I guess I do both.
The writing life.
Image credit: Roxana Trifa
I thought I’d give you all a little update on what I’ve been up to, creativity-wise.
I just attended a children’s and YA writing conference. It was held right here in Minneapolis, so I thought I’d take advantage of its being local, and I’m so glad I did. The keynote speakers (husband-and-wife team David Small and Sarah Stewart spoke on Saturday, and Donna Bray of Balzer + Bray, an imprint of HarperCollins spoke on Sunday) were all absolutely incredible. I also attended four classes, including one on Sex and YA Literature, which I think I’m going to blog about soon.
I have a draft of my novel that is ready for line edits. I will be working with Ben again, the same editor I’ve been working with since last Christmas. At the time, I blogged about how risky it was for me to purchase that mentorship, but I am so glad to report that it was MORE than worth it!
I am in the middle of writing a short story. It’s about four teenaged wards of the state living in hospice care. Morbid much? But I feel very invested in these thirteen pages, very passionate about these four friends who have no one but each other as their time is running out. My writing group is helping me with the next draft, and I’m hoping to enter it into a contest before the month is over.
I started another new short story just this week. This one is about two half-sisters, Fightest and Lou, and, in the words of Judy Hougen, I’m writing till I know.
I am trying my hand at short works of poetry and flash fiction. It’s helping me to keep limber while I wait to dive back into novel work.
I have put hours upon hours of research into creating a list of agents to query. My list is about 80 deep. I am so hoping that someone in that group will take an interest in my manuscript– but who knows? No matter what, I will not stop writing.
I have been researching hooks and re-drafting my query letter like crazy. The query letter is proving to be more difficult than writing the novel itself– and far less enjoyable. The “hook” is a short sentence that is intended to pique the interest of the reader; it’s usually the tagline on the front of the novel. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered anything more difficult to write.
Plus blogging, always blogging …
I had lunch with my friend Brittane this week. Brittane is tall and gorgeous and insightful and full of God’s strength. She has her degree in psychology, and she has this perfect way of asking questions so that you almost feel like you’re getting free therapy while you hang out with her. She’s a delight.
I was telling Brittane about the rollercoaster I can’t seem to get off … the high highs, the low lows, the sudden switches. “I don’t mean to be blaise about this, since I hate when people are like, ‘I’m so OCD,’ but sometimes I wonder if I am manic depressive.”
Brittane, in her perfect way, nodded, listened, asked questions, offered insight until we stumbled upon one important fact: these days, my rollercoaster is only about my writing life. Since my writing life is SO important to me, I wasn’t seeing the forest for the trees. It felt important, like a hand-hold. “Maybe it’s just what the writing life is like,” I said. “It’s just a continual up-and-down.”
If it is, I’m on the rollercoaster for good.
Back in the office that afternoon, I read a quote on Donald Miller’s blog that fit so perfectly with our conversation. It read:
To write is to struggle with your sanity, at times. And there will be bad days and you will feel defeated. This work is more difficult than climbing a mountain because you are doing it in the dark. I want to urge you to keep going. You matter and your words matter. By writing, you are saying to God I agree with you, you gave me a voice and the gift was not in vain. By writing, you are showing up on the stage of life rather than sitting in the comfortable theater seats (there is a time for both) and are casting your voice out toward an audience who is looking for a character to identify with, somebody to guide them through their own loneliness, no matter how transparent or hidden that loneliness is.
It was just what I needed to hear in that moment. I will continue to write, to ride this rollercoaster, because I agree with God, that he gave me a voice and the gift was not in vain.
Last week I had coffee with Stacey, a fresh college grad and newlywed. She has a degree in English from my alma mater, and we talked about how she hasn’t had any energy to write lately. Faced with student loans for an English degree, she feels like she should be writing, but she is just so completely burnt out from her senior project.
I told her the same thing happened to me after college. I was so exhausted in pretty much every possible way that I didn’t write for three years, I told her. But I didn’t waste my time either: I read like crazy, tons and tons of great literature, which was essentially like planting seeds into the field of my mind. I began to harvest years later.
I don’t think there is anything wrong with this.
It is still productive to the writing life to take a break from writing.
Quick clarification: I do believe that– in an appropriate season– it is important to force oneself to write through issues. This is different than being in a season of rest. I am in a harvesting season right now, and so I sometimes force myself to write, even when I don’t necessarily feel inspired.
It is the difference between the days of rest/no exertion after an injury and the days of rehab that follow.
I have never regretted my three-year hiatus from writing after college graduation. It allowed me time to read like a maniac, immerse myself in fantastic literature, build up life experiences, and mature before I later dove into novel writing.
What are your thoughts on this?
I have never really been neutral about anything. I am an extremist, and I feel things in my bones.
I sometimes have a hard time seeing that the current situation will likely change soon. This is a burden given to me by obsessive-compulsive disorder. We OCs think things will always feel this way.
I am a writer. Creativity is like air to me.
All of these things combine, and you have me, this volatile, passionate artist whose highs are marvelous and whose lows are dark. When writing is not going well, I sometimes think it will NEVER go well again.
Years of this rollercoaster should have proved to me that things will level out again. I don’t have to rush every draft like a linebacker, don’t have to wrestle it into shape. I can relax, breathe deeply, set it aside for a (short) time, think and pray and carry on.
JACKIE LEA SOMMERS 