High Expectations Kept Me From Seeing My Success 

“When did you first consider yourself a writer?” 

The question came from a writing coach facilitating an online group class. After considering this, the answer was fuzzy.

“Two…maybe three years, after I published my book?” 

The teacher’s eyes widened as the rest of the class looked on, each face staring out from individual video squares on the online forum. 

“Well,” he replied, “There was a writer I heard that didn’t consider himself a writer until he won the Pulitzer Prize.” 

My face dropped. “So, I’m still not a writer?” Disappointment and exhaustion hung over me. Would I ever be a writer? 

In 2012, I took on the challenge of NaNoWriMo and at last wrote the memoir that had been hanging out in my head for four years since my first husband’s death. The same one I kept telling people I was going to write but never did more than a journal entry or a chaotic outline.

I had recently remarried. If this book was to be written, now was the time. Once I set the intention, the writing flowed easily. By the end of the month, I had a rough draft. While blogging was familiar and the act of writing was both enjoyable and cathartic, calling myself a writer felt inauthentic. It was something to strive for, not simply be. 

Unfamiliar with publishing options and process, I dove in and started the steep learning curve. After nine months, my book baby was birthed as self-published with the help of a hybrid publisher. It’s title shined from the cover, Keep Going: From Grief to Growth. While I was ecstatic to hold the first fresh copy in my hands, now came the question: “Who is going to read this?”

Soon realizing the importance of marketing and how it should be the first thing to consider before actually publishing, my failure radar shrilled. My book was behind, doomed to fail because this important piece had been neglected. 

So, the steep learning curve continued as I studied how to build platform, attempted to figure out algorithms, and implemented ‘success’ formulas that would help sell my book. Press releases were written and circulated, interviews were set up, social media shares and e-newsletters were blasted out on a regular basis. Sales trickled in. It never felt like enough. I continued to feel behind and like a failure. Not in any way, like a ‘real’ writer. 

One day, while working behind my computer learning how to ‘sell my book like wildfire’, an email popped up in my inbox. The message was from a woman who told me she had been gifted my book and lived in the same city. Would I be up for meeting for lunch? 

Grateful for the excuse to break away briefly from my computer, I accepted her invitation. During our meeting, she told me how she had enjoyed reading my book about the love story I shared with my late husband and how I coped after his sudden death at age thirty. She shared she had been widowed twice. “I don’t know how to explain it,” she said, her eyes glassy with tears, “but your book gave me hope, and it made me happy.” 

Her words touched me deeply. On my way home, I realized this book has the power to offer hope, and it is my job to help it find its way to connect with more people. To do that, it felt more fun to connect in person rather than hiding behind my computer. That evening, I suggested to my husband we leave our rented home behind, put our stuff in storage, and hit the road in our Prius on a cross-country, self-propelled book tour. He immediately agreed. 

Four months later, we were on the road. Events were set up anywhere that would accept me. There were a handful of bookstores, but most refused, stating they didn’t accept self-published books. We set up at book fairs, libraries, and partnered with dance and yoga studios to offer ‘Listen & Glisten’ sessions. I would talk about the book for thirty minutes, followed by a thirty-minute movement class.

A few events were full and books sold out. Others were completely empty. The majority was somewhere in the middle, a handful of people, a handful of books sold. Five–star reviews were posted and more emails praising my book arrived in my inbox. Whatever happened, it never felt like enough to officially call myself a writer.

I was still getting refused or ignored by over half the pitches that were sent to potential venues. Oprah wasn’t calling. I wasn’t a New York Times bestseller. I wasn’t making enough money from book sales to cover having an actual home again. 

My expectations were set so high, that I nearly missed out on seeing my success.

Our book tour, which we termed the JOYride, turned into a nomadic lifestyle we loved that lasted for 4.5 years. We started on the East Coast and crossed the country three times, meeting incredible people, making new friends, and seeing more of the USA before happily landing on the West Coast. During that time, my confidence grew, my speaking skills improved, my friendships deepened, and my shyness began to dissipate. My idea of success started to shift. I started to own my self-worth and appreciate my personal journey in this writing world. 

Oprah still hasn’t called. My book royalties alone still don’t cover my bills. My book is still not on the New York Times bestseller list. I have not won the Pulitzer Prize. But this I know for sure: 

I am a writer.

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Tags: featured, women writers

Category: Contemporary Women Writers, How To and Tips