GUEST ESSAY CONTRIBUTION
I’ve always wanted to control life. As a lonely and shy child, I found that if I studied, I could get good grades in school, and I would feel better about myself. The lonely places were partly filled by the A’s. And if my mom was too overwhelmed and unequipped to teach me about fashion, I would make my own clothes and hope I got it right. If I read a lot of books, those stories and characters would also partly fill those lonely places, and I felt just a tiny bit of control over my childhood, which was, ironically, both chaotic and isolating, with overworked parents hiding secret family alcoholism.
The expectation that working hard would deliver safety and control drove me all through my adult years, even in the face of this belief’s fallacy. My sense of worth and safety hung by a thread if I couldn’t control things, even down to the amount of clutter in my living room. So, I was a hard worker, diligent, committed and ever hopeful I could keep the wolves of fear at bay.
But when I found I couldn’t control my marriage, couldn’t understand what I was doing wrong, or why my husband wanted to feel a deep connection to me — and I didn’t even know what that meant — I decided I needed some help.
My wise therapist suggested I write about my past, particularly about the part where my eighth-grade English teacher groomed me by telling me he loved me and that I was so special that he wanted to marry me when I became older than fifteen. In the meantime, he settled for just the secret sex.
So, in my fifties, I began to write. I learned so much about myself, why I struggled in relationships, why I was confused about love and why I withheld myself from my husband, the one person who sincerely wanted to know me. I wrote for twenty years! I wrote my heart out, rewrote and revised, and eventually hired a real editor to help me make my story sing. I wanted to get it right. Striving for that A.
In September 2023, my story was published and put into the world. But it was a long road from writing to publishing a memoir. Here’s how it happened.
One day, after many years of writing, I finished the latest in my voracious habit of reading memoirs, particularly those involving trauma and how the author coped, learned and healed. A wisp of thought took root in my mind that maybe I could publish my story, too.
But were my pages and pages good enough? What if they weren’t? How does one even go about it? Good student that I was, I embarked on educating myself. I joined writing groups and took classes in memoir and publishing at Boston’s center for creative writing. I read everything written by book publishing guru Jane Friedman, and took many of her and others’ classes. I finally submitted a query letter and sample pages to an agent — my first and, as it turned out, my last agent submission. Her feedback: “MeToo stories are a dime a dozen. What’s so special about yours?” I felt kicked in the gut. First, I thought, what makes my story special is that IT HAPPENED TO ME. Then I took a breath and realized my attachment to my story was far from enough to make it publishable. I understood that I needed to revise some more and pull out that differentiating message. Although her feedback was not easy to hear and was not delivered kindly, in the end, it made my work better. Working with a professional editor again, I revised for another year.
During that year, I did a lot of soul-searching about my reasons for wanting to put my story into the world. For me, writing my story wasn’t only about creative expression, and wanting to publish it wasn’t only about the allure of a professional writing career. I was clear that my sole motivation for seeking to publish my book was the idea that my story of trauma, struggle and healing could help other women, other people. I did not believe my story was a dime a dozen, and I set out to honor that belief. I carefully considered the various publishing paths available: traditional, hybrid and self-publishing. I was discouraged by traditional publishing because there were three important things I did not have enough of: a strong platform, previous publications, and a lot of time. Finding an agent was necessary for the traditional route. This usually takes time, and then it takes more time for them to shop the manuscript before, hopefully, finding an interested editor who then has to champion the submission to their team. I was now in my sixties, and I didn’t want to spend the next two, five, ten, or more years trying to get in the door of a world that had a low likelihood of opening to me. If I were younger, I believe I would have done what was necessary to pursue the traditional route.
Having ruled out seeking the traditional path, I also didn’t want to self-publish. I was guilty of subscribing to the stigma this path suffers from, as somehow not trying hard enough to find a publisher or being unfavorable to the industry. Thankfully, this is slowly changing. Self-publishing also felt like a huge project that I wasn’t confident I knew enough about to do well on my own. The hybrid model is more of a partnership, and this was appealing to me. Although the business model of hybrids requires a significant financial investment in return for those services, I decided this was the right path for me.
I researched and vetted an extensive list of hybrid publishers. They are not all alike; some offer different services and different levels of author involvement. I knew I wanted to work with a press that included traditional sales and distribution, as I understood this to be a huge benefit traditional houses include, but that you rarely get with many hybrid presses or with self-publishing. I submitted to several hybrids, interviewed, and received contracts from three of them. I went with the most respected, She Writes Press, a publisher who was a collaborative partner, offered guidance along the way, a traditional distribution channel, and even fostered a lively community of fellow authors who shared experiences and knowledge. My book was going to be published, and I was elated! My diligence and hard work were paying off.
In my Buddhist studies, I have learned that expectations and their associated assumptions lead to nothing but suffering. I know it is wise to trade in our expectations for aspirations — expectations carry the burden of needing specific outcomes to make us happy. Aspirations are motivational, inspiring, and energizing; they are not attached to specific results but instead to what we value. But I was so giddy about being a published author that I forgot all about this. Each dashed expectation felt like a rejection of me, even though that feeling and the expectation itself were all created by me.
My first expectation was that the process would move quickly; it did not. An entire year had passed from the day I signed the contract to the day the publisher even began working on my book. I spent this year productively, continuing to educate myself and working with a marketing coach on how to bridge the themes in my book to my work in the world, teaching mindfulness meditation. I became a good literary citizen; I bought, read, and reviewed other authors’ books and attended their speaking events. I continued to tweak my manuscript, culling unnecessary adverbs, looking for cliches, and correcting typos. I became content with the waiting. I was busy working hard!
Once my publisher began working on my book, I was excited and eager to do everything. I loved the collaborative process of settling on a subtitle, book cover design, and internal page formats. I enjoyed working with an editor for a final round of line editing and proofreading, seeing how it improved the flow and clarity of my words. This book was my baby, and I happily doted over all these enjoyable activities that yielded its final shape, color, and presence.
My next expectation was that I would get prominent people to blurb my book. Blurbs are quotes from other authors and professionals that appear on the back and inside pages of the book, saying wonderful things about it. After determining who to ask, excavating their contact information, painstakingly crafting the letters to them, and sending them off, I waited. I ruminated over how many nagging reminders to send and how to word them diplomatically. I was very confident about the first blurb request I sent, but when that time came, instead of a blurb, she sent editorial comments on the first few pages, didn’t read the rest, and withdrew her blurb offer. That stung! Others said, “I am too busy to write any blurbs at this time,” and “I’ll try, but don’t promise anything.” There were the rudest rejections — radio silence.
My next erroneous expectation was that my pricey publicist would get me into prominent outlets, like NPR, US News, and perhaps a movie option. Even then, I knew that was a stretch, but I must admit I harbored the hope despite its hubris. I did get into some bookstores, podcasts, and magazines, which was exciting, but compared to my big expectations, it felt a little underwhelming.
My book launch was exhilarating! Planning the event was fun, but I felt bruised by the family members who chose not to come , while the ones who traveled far to be there made my heart soar. The following months of bookstore events were thrilling. I had my remarks prepared and the readings carefully selected; I had my outfits lined up; I had bags of snacks and drinks to offer to those in attendance, sometimes food and wine. The first few events were well attended, and the audience members were engaged. I begged my local friends and family to come out, even if it meant more than once, and some of them did. My husband, the loyal trooper that he is, came to everything. But over time, it became harder and harder to nudge people to come out, and close friends and family members began having other plans. How many bookstore events can a friend attend, after all?Audiences started boasting no more than a handful of people, and it began to take its toll on me, no matter how much I reframed the experience with understanding. I was bitten again by my expectations. Not only did I expect my friends and family to attend multiple events, I expected the bookstores and libraries themselves to fill the seats. Alas, unless you are reasonably famous, they do not.
Nonetheless, I always found the time in front of an audience of any size almost blissful. I was comfortable speaking publicly and passionate about discussing my book’s themes. I felt fulfilled by engaging the audience around topics of family dynamics, relationships, spiritual growth and healing, and by raising awareness of the prevalence and harm of teenage abuse at the hands of older men. Along with being energizing, because of the personal content of my book, it was — and still is — emotionally exhausting to be so vulnerable. I spent many months post-publication in a state of fatigue that took me by surprise. At first, this confused me, until I realized it came with the territory of being publicly vulnerable.
I had one realistic and helpful expectation: I never expected to earn back my financial investment in publishing my book. For me, publishing wasn’t about earning money, although receiving my first royalty check did feel good. The hybrid route is expensive. It is a business model that requires a financial investment from an author in return for more say in the book’s production, a transparent and collaborative relationship, retained ownership rights, traditional sales and distribution channels, and higher royalties. Some of my fellow She Writes Press authors who engage in persistent and extended marketing do earn a fair amount of their investment back, but this is rare. Many of us never will.
Still, a book stays in the world for a long time, and mine will too. Approaching two years now, I still have the occasional library or book club event, and I adore these. I am still looking for ways to reach new audiences, but I am also tired of all the asking and outreach. Why can’t a movie producer discover my book and call me up with a solid offer in hand? Why doesn’t the New York Times beg me to join with those writing about the latest abuse scandal when my story is so similar, sadly, to theirs? Why not? Because this is not what happens to 99% of authors, considering that the industry publishes four million new titles per year.
Publishing is exhilarating and exhausting, full of highs and lows, and it calls on all our stamina, courage, and resilience to keep going. But every moment and every emotion of the long journey is worth it! At almost every turn, there are rejections, dashed expectations, but also tremendous joy and learning.
I have learned a lot about the myth of control and the hazards of expectations. I have learned not to build my self-worth on my ability to control uncontrollable things, and to work on trading in expectations for aspirations. I take it as a privilege to have a book in the world and the fulfillment and gratitude I feel about that are immeasurable.
Liz Kinchen, author of Light in Bandaged Places: Healing in the Wake of Young Betrayal, www.lizkinchen.com.
ELEVENTH HOUR LITERARY 