Telling the truth

One of the greatest things about the Internet is the ability to talk honestly about life, to make yourself vulnerable and know you might be helping someone in the process. I can’t count the times seeing someone tell their truth has let me know I wasn’t alone. That affirmation, especially in this age of social media, where it seems like everyone else has found the secret to a perfect golden life—well, it’s a balm for my heart and a reining-in of my depressive tendencies.

So let me tell you a secret, and maybe it’ll help you, too.

I had a birthday in the late fall, and one of the things I promised myself was that I wouldn’t stop believing in my dreams, even if it seems like there’s no chance they’ll ever come true—that the closer I get, the faster they move away.

The other day I broke that promise. I woke up anxious to a rainy gray sky, and in my chest, something tugged. It pulled at things outside me, things I have no control over. It felt wistful and sad. It turned me into an outsider again, as I’ve been for most of my life. I tried to distract myself with errands and a book, and reminding myself of what I’d done thus far in my writing career, both publicly and privately. But none of it helped. I wandered into a library and just knew my books would never be on that shelf.

And it made me want to cry.

If you’re on this website, you know I’m a writer. Writers write, and writers usually want to sell their stories and see their books published. What’s scarier than the idea that the book you poured your heart and many years into might not go anywhere at all?

Is it because you wrote about brown people and used “weird” names for your characters?

Is it because you should have known better and gone straight to a niche publisher as you were advised, because writing about brown people with “weird” names immediately makes your book niche?

Is it because you just can’t write, despite all the years you’ve put into honing your craft?

Is it because you’re too strange in the way you see the world, so no one can relate to the stories you have to tell?

Or is it just because no one cares about those stories?

I’ve cried a lot this past year. Privately, in the company of my husband and friends, but I have cried. And I’ve said more than once that I want to give up, because who cares, anyway?

Even typing that is hard; the world insists I should be shoving down all this fear and wearing my game face. Never let anyone see I doubted even for a second. A professional doesn’t do that, even when things are stuck in limbo.

And things are in limbo, and I’m scared. Here’s where my narrative arc says I’m supposed to put on a bright smile and soldier forward. I’m doing that; I haven’t given up, and I do believe in my dreams, even if I falter. But I am scared. Scared that they might not come true after all.

My arc isn’t done yet, of course, “improper” as it may be, and I don’t know where I’ll end up. On bookstore and library shelves, I hope, as I work hard at putting down more words about weird-named characters who look like me. I can’t see the end of the story until I get there.

E.T.A.: Some of you have expressed concern to me after reading this post, and I thank you, but I want to stress that I’m doing fine and have no plans to give up. I just wanted to address some things that don’t get talked about enough. We all struggle on our artistic path in some way or another, and I personally find hearing I’m not alone in having doubts from time to time really helpful, so I’m sharing mine for anyone else who could benefit.