Christa: Confession time
I’m going to admit to something that I haven’t wanted to admit to myself for a long time: the reason for my creative funk, all my questioning and browbeating, is at heart a temper tantrum. Why? Because I didn’t get my way.
By now, I was “supposed to” have landed an agent. I really was convinced that my writing was good enough. Even though I knew it was certainly possible that it wouldn’t happen within six months, I didn’t really think it wouldn’t. I believed at least that I would get requests for fulls and that those would tide me over.
I did get those requests, but early on, and nothing since about Thanksgiving. While I’m aware there are other options in publishing (I’m looking at small presses), I’ve still found myself wondering: what’s really in store for my career? Is this really what’s meant for my life?
I hope not. Because the thought of not being a novelist really, really depresses me.
But here’s the other thing, the other part of this confession. What I was hoping for was to be a wunderkind. I’m turning 33 in a month, and I really just wanted to be “discovered” and published before I turned 40. I wanted this because no one has ever thought much of me (at least until I met my husband). I was “nothing special” for many years. Two teachers loved my writing, but my parents didn’t love it and my peers didn’t get it. I have always wanted to “prove” myself, even though none of those people will ever be satisfied.
An author gave me some advice a few years back that I’ve kept, and now that I’m in this position, her words mean a lot more to me than they did then: “There’s been a lot of discussions of youth/writing recently. But you know what? There’s absolutely no percentage to being a wunderkind because, eventually, they’re going to take the kind away and you’re going to have to be a wunder on your own. And, at the risk of sounding very, very vain, I’m fairly confident that there’s not a 30-something on the planet who can write a wiser book than I can. Better, more beautiful? Sure. But there are things we learn as life goes on that makes writing richer with each decade. So think about the life as part of the writing, and don’t beat yourself up.”
What elicited her advice? My fear, even then, that I wouldn’t get anything done because of my kids.
In many ways I’m in a better position now than I was then. I have a number of short story credits in good, reputable markets; I’m helping to edit a magazine. So I can’t say I’m still stuck in a rut, and that’s good. Meanwhile, like I wrote to Bethany, fiction is an intrinsic part of my sense of balance. For my own sake and that of my family, I need to continue to pursue it. Even if it’s only a few sentences a day. And that “wunderkind” thing? Well, maybe that’s my personal bar that needs to be lowered.
Studio Mothers: Life & Art 
Your honesty is compelling, Christa. It sounds to me like you’re not really having a temper tantrum; you’re trying to adjust to a changing reality.
I too had thoughts of early greatness–surely I would publish a novel before 30. But by the age of 27 I had three kids and life had taken over. As the new decade came, I pretended I wasn’t really ignoring my longstanding goal. Now I’m looking at 40, and honestly, I’m not that much closer to publishing a novel. When you look at it that way–well, ouch.
On the other hand, I always figured I wouldn’t have anything terribly brilliant to say until 40 anyway (as your author acquaintance advised you). But still, I figured I would publish something early on the basis of wit and charm anyway. It wasn’t to be.
I think you’re quite right: there is no inherent advantage in being a wunderkind. You can probably let that go, without much regret. Maybe it isn’t lowering the bar, but rather breathing in deeply and looking around at the resources at your disposal–as well as all the other commitments that mean you can’t ship off to the Vermont Studio Center for a month-long writing retreat.
The more important thing is that you are working toward something solid and meaningful. You’ve been paying your dues. It’s that old “trust the process” thing, which sounds great until one day you want to smack the next person who tells you it will all work out. But it will. It will because it has to.
In the wise words of Dory, “Just keep swimming; just keep swimming….”
Christa, I think you’ve just addressed the elephant in the room. I, too, have aspirations of greatness. I don’t want to just get my novel published. I want New York Times Bestseller List, interview on the Today Show, six-figure book deal kind of success.
Ever since I was in school, I’ve been identified as “the writer”. Teachers have always waxed poetic about my talent. My friends and family all fully expect me to be published the second my novel hits the slush pile. If anything in my life has felt pre-ordained, it is this.
I dread the rejections that I know are coming. I try to steel myself against them as much as I possibly can. I know that it’s not going to be a walk in the park–and that it’s not supposed to be–because if I were to achieve success, it would be meaningless, since everyone else and their dog would be published too.
But at the same time, I do feel a sense of urgency. I’m 31. And I’m just getting started. Oh sure, I’ve had a poem and a short story published in a campus literary magazine. And three different plays I’ve written have won three different awards. It’s not like I haven’t been writing. But I really thought I would have more by now–it takes such an infernally long time to write anything anymore–what with my responsibilities to my husband and children–that I can’t even contemplate what it would mean to be prolific. I hate writing at this snail’s pace. It seems so horribly unfair. It’s like Chinese water torture… drop drop drop drop drop drop drop drop drop until I want to scream.
But the little drops do add up, and by some miracle, I finished a novel despite every imaginable obstacle, so maybe something good will come of it. Or at least that’s what I hope.
Thanks, ladies. I was just thinking the other day how much your support has meant to me. I would still have made the choices I did, but would have felt so much more isolated. Knowing you’re all out there (and one even in the same city I want to move to!) has made it so much more bearable.
Miranda, really I think the issue for me has been my desire to be a genius. I’m not sure if I’ve always felt this way, or only since my brother’s IQ was tested and my mother started referring to him as a “genius” (we had HORRID sibling rivalry growing up, and I always felt she favored him. In fact, when I found out my IQ was the same as his – low 130’s – I felt both vindicated and gypped). There we go with the deep dark family skeletons! 😛 Anyway, it is all part of learning to love myself as I am.
Then again, given Brittany’s input, maybe it is just a writer-ego thing. 🙂 I am so glad you finished your novel with the “water torture” method – that really gives me hope!