I took a risk. Emotionally. I threw my hat in the ring for the National Book Award long list. I never thought I would ever be a finalist, but since I had a traditional publisher and I could qualify, I thought why not. As I bundled the books to mail to the prestigious list of judges, I felt a rush. I love my book so much I am willing to go through this process of almost assured rejection. Self-help is not what they pick in the National Book Awards Non-Fiction on the regular. They opt for heady topics often from people of color, with arresting stories of their journey. The non fiction narratives are often heavily research driven, and poignant to our current world view. My book on recovering from denial of abuse felt like the bastard child, but because I am so passionate about the subject matter, I applied.
I didn’t know what was coming down the pike for me, though, as a writer as the days grew close of the judging. I went into a state first of anger, then depression, and on the day the long list was announced, found myself feverishly checking the list.
I had in some way gotten hope that just maybe, as an underdog, I would get picked.
Hope is a bitch. It brings out our cracks in self-worth. What hope also can do is smack you in the face with what you care about. I found myself realizing I actually gave a shit about this writing deal. I was committed enough as a writer to look at myself as a National Book Award writer, even if the judging or criteria didn’t say so. I also understood I had been hedging on writing my next book because I had been holding my breath since June on this competition. Now that I saw I wasn’t a long list contender, I could exhale and get busy writing.
“The exposure to the judges alone is good,” I said to my daughter. I was looking for a silver lining. “Mom, it’s your first book,” she said.
God, she was right! I couldn’t give up now. I had to look at the fact that I had stopped writing, and exploring (except for this column) and I couldn’t give up. I didn’t give up on dating, and I fell in love. I didn’t give up on real estate and now I own two places. The list goes on of determined wishes coming true… but not quickly. Seven years? Ten years? Writing, though… oh man, was there ever a place to land? I have been at this since I was twenty. I don’t think so. The line keeps moving in the sand. We have to continue tracking, growing and evolving into this elusive craft that makes us laugh, cry, vexed and frightened. I keep re-doing my vows to writing. Re-committing, when sometimes I want to walk away.
I used to think my longest relationship was alcohol, but now I know it is writing. I put the alcohol down ten years ago, but the words keep coming to me.
My boyfriend texted me around 4 PM yesterday with a sad emoji. He had seen the National Book Award long list for non-fiction before me and let me know I wasn’t on it. He assured me amazing things were to come with my writing. I was relieved he was on the watch for me. I had to let go of checking. I was literally constipated from clenching in survival about the place that I was so emotionally tethered… my writing. My story. The hours and hours and hours at 5 AM hammering at the keys, writing and knowing sometimes I was an incredible writer and other times I was just doing the notes my editor demanded.
I also had to look at whether I even was a National Book Award writer. Or what competitions mean to me. Some people get a leg up in awards. I never have. I have always just been a fighter and a survivor. If I swing and miss, I regroup and then come back. I do this through connections, relationships and curiosity, but rarely with awards. I won the freshman year writing competition at Emerson for short story. I recall how stunned I was. I hadn’t invested in that win at all. I just wrote the story I needed to have told. I reminded myself to go back to that young writer who wrote to just get it off her chest and out into the world.
You don’t need to win awards to be a spectacular writer. I am proud that I was able to recognize that my book was valuable enough to try. That I felt worthy enough with a book about a topic that is not a light summer read - recovery from sexual abuse - to wave my flag. This proves to me how much writing is my lover and my curse.
What I did do was take a risk. When we take a risk with our writing, we open the door to stare into our deeper selves and look at what is there inside when we are vulnerable. I am snarly and discombobulated, but in and around those defense mechanisms, I love being a writer. I love being a writer.
I love being a writer.