Writing Through the Bad Spots

I stare at the screen and wish I could conjure something from nothing.

The particles would coalesce in the air, swirling and entwining, as they accumulated into a book that dropped into my lap. (Is there a Harry Potter spell for that?)

I keep telling myself I'm just biding my time, waiting for the right ideas to percolate, yet for years I have watched the long-haulers go past the finish line of completed manuscripts, agent accruals, book deals, and all the glitz of what it means to be published.

For another day, I sigh and close my laptop. I've been playing this game with myself for ten years. The words, "It would have happened by now if it was meant to happen," have followed me for years. I've danced through 10,000 and 20,000 words only to become bored with what I have. I tried to tell myself that I was busy, that I had college classes and a job, that I just needed to give myself the space to let a book grow organically.

Then 2020 happened...and I watched how productive other people were. They baked banana bread and sourdough bread, they found new hobbies to embrace, they wrote music and collaborated on projects and created meaning for themselves in a world that had shut down in a lot of ways.

Over a year later, all I have is a college degree and a lot of hours poured into Netflix/Disney+/Hulu. I'm not even a perennial TV watcher, yet during the pandemic I watched more shows than I had done in the five to ten years prior. I told myself I was "filling the well" for my creativity. If something would jolt me, then this would be the way.

(It wasn't.)

One of my friends worked a full-time job and wrote the equivalent of four or five novels. Another friend finished a novel (which I beta-read) and started working on a new idea while querying agents. Even celebrities like Taylor Swift (2 albums? Seriously?) were prolific during trying times.

Somewhere between Never Have I Ever and Love on the Spectrum, I think I gave up on the notion that I was going to write a novel during the pandemic. Instead, I fell in love with some new Disney movies and wrote personal essays that will never see the light of day. (Wow, Jillian, such an overachiever.)

I think I started closing a door to a house that I was never meant to own. It was easier to make the drive across town and settle in an apartment that was falling apart rather than try to figure out how to keep paying for a mortgage I couldn't afford. (How do you like that for a metaphor?)

I once told myself I would be a novelist by the age of twenty-five. I'll be thirty-one in the fall. And, you know, the publishing industry has changed in the interim too. I read somewhere that most books in 2020 didn't sell more than 5,000 copies—and just reaching that mark or a little over was actually a bit of a success story.

I've also done my research in other ways. Novel-writing is much like freelancing, no matter if you're traditionally published or indie published, and you don't get benefits like health insurance, a pension, or social security down the line. And then you have to think about agent fees, royalties (if your book even earns out its advance), and the fact that payments are scattered depending on your deadlines (and the tenuous quality that you may miss those deadlines).

One author I follow on social media once made comments that you'll be lucky to make $30K a year as an author. And, again, those are the lucky ones.

But I don't have a pony in this race, guys. Why do I care? Because I'm not that starry-eyed teen who thought it was just about writing high-concept novels that would be sure to rake in the cash and stardom. I watched as young adult literature transitioned from supernatural creatures and urban fantasy (thanks, Twilight) to dystopian fare (thanks, The Hunger Games) to fantasy epics (thanks, Sarah J. Maas) and now to romantic comedies galore. Surely I could have fit something in there somewhere? Right?

I started realizing somewhere along my writing road that I wrote quiet stories. This idea was coined by my college creative writing professor who commented about my stories in just this way. No one was ever wowed by what I wrote. They didn't want to know more. There was no narrative pull. Forget about writing the YA equivalent of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, Jillian, because your writing is not action-packed enough for that kind of project. Go write your short fiction pieces that are too short to be stories in anthologies yet too crammed to be flash fiction attempts.

I also entered three writing contests in 2020. I didn't pay the extra fees to get editorial feedback, but none of what I wrote was even shortlisted. It's okay. There are more contests where those came from. But the $25 entry fees start to add up...

All of these things swirl in my head, building and building on top of each other, and I'm spending most of my time applying for jobs just to have something. Each application sent out and left with no response comes with this fear: What if I don't find anything? What will I do?

I also have fears of returning to the retail world with my tail between my legs and spending ten, twenty, thirty years listening to customers who don't realize they're speaking to actual people, not robots named "sales associates: feel free to verbally pummel."

But I tell myself this is just a phase. I'm catastrophizing. I'm experiencing the post-college slump. I'm dealing with a post-pandemic world where the most prevalent jobs are in retail, service, and hospitality.

What does this have to do with writing? Well—I feel that atmosphere has a lot to do with how we conceptualize things. My mental and emotional landscapes right now feel flooded with all the worries of things I can only do so much to control. Writing, for me, doesn't do well in such an environment.

While others were able to make the most of their lockdown lives, I escaped as much as I could. But I should have been retreating into the worlds created by me, not ones manufactured by other people. I may not be able to write a novel, but other things? Maybe. I'm still testing the waters.

The problem, I know, is me. I create the "bad spots" in my writing journey. I'm working on it, or I'm trying to.

If you're struggling too—well, know you're not alone. Maybe we can commiserate on a Discord server or something. Or whatever the cool kids use these days.

I just hope that someday soon I can see past this fog that's making me question why I write and what I should do when my muse doesn't show up. Lady Burnout has been my constant companion, it feels like.

All that to say—I may not wear the mantle of "writer" well, but I hope I can grow into it. Someday.

Thanks for reading. Feel free to check out my profile page for more musings and mantras.