Books Are Boyfriends

The trials of writer’s monogamy

But it’s pretty much the same thing. Hear me out.

Month after month, I showed up nearly every day to sit down with my book. Some days we spent hours together, some days, only a few moments. But I put in the time and learned so much. We laughed, we cried, we thought about life’s Big Questions. By the end of the year, I had my book meet my friends (aka my critique group), and they gave me some relationship advice, helping me see my book in new ways and showing me where I needed to take it next.

At the beginning of 2020, I endured my first major rewrite. The world shut down. Poor Stephen (hubs) was chained to Zoom for 12+ hour work days during the pandemic turmoil so we didn’t starve. Those months, it was pretty much just me and my book. Then over the summer, I had my book meet my writing mentor, which was basically couple’s therapy. She read everything, got a clear picture, and told me that I needed to go even deeper and discover more about the story.

The problem is, my book and I are members of this weird religion called Publishing. We need the leaders of this religion to approve our relationship to make the marriage official. A priestly representative known as an agent needs to assess our 300 page history and deem it worthy to present to the bishops known as editors. If an editor approves, then our marriage will be deemed legitimate and I can go back to all my friends and loved ones and thank them in a champagne toast.

(By the way, the Pope in the religion of Publishing is not a single person: it’s Twitter, where the faceless collective has the final say if this whole thing was a waste of time or not. Thus making Publishing, like most major religions these days, pretty abusive to everyone involved.)

And friends, if you think I have exhausted this metaphor, you wouldn’t be wrong. But I’m going to keep beating this poor horse corpse anyway.

The sage advice from all of the published authors who’ve made it through this grueling process is that while you wait for agents and editors to deem your book worthy, the best thing you can do is: find another one.

That’s right. Break up with your book. Find someone new. Because you’re powerless now. And you’ll go crazy just waiting around.

But what if I’m not ready to start dating a new one?

There are writers out there who can work on more than one story at the same time. There are others who can work on short stories, spending only twenty pages in a whole world with all these characters, and then letting them live in that microcosm. I do not know how to do those things. It astounds me. Give every one of those authors a Pulitzer and a pack of Oreos because they are goddamn superheros. When they are gone, give their brains to science and tell me what you find.

Maybe it’s because I’ve always been a monogamous person. I hated dating (real people) which is why for most of my twenties I just didn’t do it. Alas, there were no flings or one night stands in my fleeting youth. There were a few exceptions, but I always broke it off within 2–3 months when it wasn’t right. Each long-term relationship I’ve been in was ended by the other person, because once I commit to something, I am in it to win it. Whenever I got my heart broken, I never did the whole “rebound” thing. I just wallowed.

Which may explain why this transitional period between books has been so fucking hard for me.

The truth is, I haven’t let the last one go. It’s like we’re broken up, but I’m still hoping it will call. Every time I check my email, I’m desperately hoping for an agent to write back and tell us the wedding is back on. And I know I can’t keep doing that.

Probably the best thing (real) therapy has ever taught me is that you don’t just grieve people who have died. You can grieve the loss of anything. A family heirloom that breaks, the relationship you wish you had with your parents, the fact that your body doesn’t operate the way it used to-we are dealt so many losses in life. And any loss deserves the process of grief.

But grief is a weird slingshot type thing, unexpectedly pulling you back in even when you think you’ve moved on. And despite the so-called stages, I think grief is different for everyone. Personally, I don’t usually dwell too long in denial, and I don’t think I’m a big bargainer. But I can get super angry about things and then when the anger burns up, I get totally depressed. And the more I care about the loss, the longer the depression lasts.

Which is to say, guys, I’ve been depressed about this book thing. Because I care about it so much. My insomnia lately is so unreal that every night brushing my teeth feels like I am preparing for battle. I’ve gone into cognitive behavioral therapy and I’ve been working on my various coping mechanisms, trying to replace the life-long damaging ones with healthier ones. Don’t feel bad for me — I’ve got tons of support and everything I need — but it still. fucking. sucks.

If you’ve been reading my essays for a while (first, thank you), you know I’m all about balance and non-dualism. But right now, I don’t know how to balance hope and acceptance. I don’t know how to have hope for my last book, and at the same time accept that it might be dead in the water so I can move on to the next thing. I know that I am suffering for my attachments, but how does someone motivate themselves to spend years writing a whole damn book without caring deeply for the work that they do? I don’t think I will ever be able to let that go.

Unless it’s not really about letting go. Probably, and furiously, the answer is: giving it time.

The image of the jars is something that I’ve seen floating around the internet. When I first saw it, I thought it was kind of interesting and moved on. But now that I’m in the middle of this weird waiting/grief thing in my creative life, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I hate that it feels true.

My love for my book will probably never change. The grief that I feel at the idea that we have come to the end of our road will probably never lessen. But as I learn to accept things, spend more time with my new book, or try other creative pursuits, maybe my body and my heart can grow bigger and around my ball of grief. Maybe I will learn to hold my love and grief for my book even more somehow. Somehow-the word we use when we talk about mystery.

Hopefully one day I’ll wake up and it won’t be just me and a book. I dream of the day I can be polyamorous in my writing life, like those other superhero authors out there. Because I’m never letting go, Jack. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part.

Related posts:

As cybersecurity issues have become more and more important in recent weeks, I have been looking at how to make it as easy as possible to create a Kali-Linux virtual machine in Azure to work with…

I want to talk about an amazing power that can change your life. It’s all based on the quality of the questions you ask yourself. One of the tricks I’ve learned in life is that your mind works in…

Despite having knowledge and experience in the financial services industry, and starting my financial journey early, a few years ago I found myself behaving irresponsibly when it came to managing my…