The Terror and Excitement of One's Debut Memoir

Finding a center in our culture of fast commerce and small attention spans

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I’ll start in early 2019, when I started writing the proposal for my forthcoming book, Hotshot.

I was practically living out of my car, working 50 hours a week as a nanny in the town where my mother had died by suicide. The book proposal was my only lifeline, tethering me to something that felt solid, although neither the (metaphorical) rope itself or the object were solid, or real. The book was imaginary. Its sale, and my redemption, weren’t guaranteed. Nothing’s guaranteeed for an artist.

I was living off of hope, which is how I tend to do things.

Hope, and terror. Hope, and the fear that it won’t work out, because so many things have fallen apart in my life.

When you grow up adapting yourself to an unreliable world, there are parts of you always reaching for something stable. If nothing stable exists and you want to survive, you’ll make things up.

This is how I operate.

In other words, me and my mom moved all the time. Home was unreliable. Her moods were mercurial, her presence fleeting. I had no agency as a child so I created worlds in my mind. Worlds where I made things happen. Then, when I was twelve, I ran away for the first time. Was it that I wanted to escape? (yes). Or that I wanted to be the one making a decision? (yes).

The proposal for Hotshot was 65 pages long. Chapter summaries, sample chapters. An introduction. A marketing section. I wrote it while I was drowning. It kept my mouth above water. Barely.

And it sold. My life changed. But it didn’t.

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Something I’ve learned is: Selling a book doesn’t make things better.

A writer told me this once but I only half believed her. It’s not entirely true. Selling a book does change things, but it doesn’t change the writer who wrote the book (or the proposal, in my case). I sold my book, got some money. Not an extravagent amount, but more than I’d ever had before. Did some research, moved to Europe for a Fulbright.

A classroom where I taught in the tiny town of Podbořany, Czechia

You need only read the archives to know how all that turned out.

And yet: Here I am, less than a month away from my book’s debut.

I currently have less than $2000 to my name, thanks to my expensive Florida apartment and sparse PhD stipend. I can’t currently afford to buy a new outfit for my upcoming events. There are many things I would do differently between now and my book’s sale in 2019, but hindsight truly is 20/20, and my eyesight has never been great. And my financial situation is, I keep telling myself, temporary. I always tell myself that. Someday it won’t be temporary. Someday I will pay less than 50% of my income for rent, and things will be easier.

It’s a strange kind of cognitive dissonance, not knowing if I’ll have to put August’s rent on a credit card while also knowing that my book debuts on August 12th. Not knowing if Hotshot will be seen or read or be a blip in an ocean of other books about other things.

The six years I poured into this book: Will it have been for nothing?

Is this what every writer feels before their debut?

On most days, I feel a massive sense of pressure, as if the air is heavier than usual. I need to write emails, answer emails, pitch podcasts, pitch publications, post things on social media, follow up on promised reviews, field requests, hope I get requests. I compare myself to others. Why is this other book getting so much more attention? Why doesn’t my book have many ratings on Goodreads or Netgalley or Edelweiss? (Yes, apparently this matters before publication). Will I earn out my advance? (No, according to everyone). Will my books sell enough copies to be deemed “successful,” opening the door to selling my next book?

Why do I have to think so much about selling?

I feel like I have a job I didn’t sign up for. It’s not paid, but it’s exhausting.

Then I tell myself to stop complaining, because I am one of the lucky ones (and it is, past a cetrain point, all luck).

I remind myself that publishing a book is an accomplishment in itself.

That I’ve already been told, by several people, about how my book made them feel seen.

And that’s enough, isn’t it? For my book to have made at least one person feel seen?

I remind myself why I wrote this book. Because I wanted (and want) to give voice to my younger self, and teach people about wildfire, and participate in a larger conversation.

I remind myself that pouring my soul into a book I’ve created– fully offering myself to the project for over half a decade– is what an artist does.

I am an artist.

I created something I am proud of.

The rest is out of my hands.

Over the past six months I’ve watched Gathering’s paid subscriber count fall, and I haven’t taken it personally.

I’m doing the best I can. This newsletter is five years-old, which means it’s ancient compared to most newsletters on the platform. Yet its growth has remained stagnant for the past year or so, and I’m okay with that. I don’t check the stats beyond the subscriber count (which Substack forces me to see on the dashboard). I just do what I’ve always done, which is share my life with you. And often I’m lucky enough to hear about your lives.

We live in the wild capitalist country, and it’s a WILD capitalist time right now. A time unlike any other, as all times are. Everyone is shouting over each other. The news cycle reports horror after horror, making little room for the good things, of which there are many.

War is not new. Evil is not new.

We often feel responsible for things out of our control.

I have hope for us. For them. For everyone. For the planet.

Like a rope made of imaginary fibers, my hope is a lasso. I swing it above my head, aiming for things beyond my grasp. Ideas that seem too good to be true.

With my book, I imagined new paradigms. I imagined that we can be better.

We won’t get there unless we believe it.

Like, really believe it.

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If I can create worst case scenarios, I am also capable of imagining the best outcomes.

This goes for all of us.

Everyone says: Don’t get your hopes up. They want me to manage my expectations. But I’ve been managing my expectations all my life, preparing for the worst until I make the worst my reality, a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’ve imagined ill intent where none existed, imagined evil where there was goodness.

Not for any reason other than past experiences. The brain seeks patterns, and I base my current reality on past circumstances.

Or, I can. That’s my default. But do I have to live that way?

I don’t think I do.

So, if you’re still with me, I’ll tell you a secret.

I’ve imagined the most fantastical outcome for my book. And my life. It’s out of sync with my current reality, but not impossible. I’ve defied reality before. Many time. I imagine earning out my advance. I imagine writing another book under less stressful circumstances. I imagine myself into a decent job, into a decent home, into a life stable enough to finally foster children who needs homes.

I imagine myself into the life of my dreams. Not one where I’m rich with money and possessions. Not one where I’m physically attractive. Not one where I’ve found the best partner.

Just…enough. What is enough? Where is the bar?

This is a necessary practice, I think, or I will never be satisfied.

I know what my enough is, and it’s not a lot. Certainly not more than I deserve.

We all deserve to have enough, whether it’s given to us or we work for it ourselves.

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Some Notes:

• Over the next eight weeks I’ll be publishing some Hotshot B-Sides; excerpts of cut material from my book, with notes on the editorial process. This will be for paying subscribers (for privacy reasons).

• If you pre-order my book I’ll comp you a year’s paid subscription to this newsletter. Just send me a picture of your receipt. Bonus if you buy it from your local indie bookstore (and ask them if they’re stocking it!).

• Ask me any questions about the publishing and writing process in the comments, and I’ll answer them.

• If you haven’t yet, please request Hotshot from your local library and add my book to read on Goodreads. It really helps!

• Please share this newsletter if you enjoyed it!

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Don’t know who I am? Want to know about my book? Learn more here.

Or ask me in the comments.