I got into this writing game years before I actually saw my
first book in print and sitting on the shelf in Barnes and Noble. My daughter was a year old when I decided to
get serious and to actually try and write my first novel, which was called
Resurrecting Ruth at the time. Later on
I changed the title to And on the Eighth Day She Rested.
It took me nearly seven years and over a hundred rejection
letters to learn to write a novel.
Eighth Day was my “practice” book
and for that reason, it will always be the one nearest and dearest to my
heart.
Like most aspiring black authors, I credit Terry McMillan,
E. Lynn Harris, Connie Briscoe, and Eric Jerome Dickey with inspiring my
career. They were writing stories about
people in my generation, who I could relate too and we readers were gobbling up
those stories like popcorn. We couldn’t
get enough! And finally, those of us who
had always dreamed of being writers but who wanted to tell a different kind of
story, a modern and contemporary story about the perils of our urban lives had
a platform. So many of us jumped on that
bandwagon. Some of us stayed on it, and
others didn’t.
I had this idea in my head that if I could just get my first
book written, I’d land a major book deal and my life would be set. I’d grow old writing books. I’d travel the country lecturing and signing
books, and then the world, and then I’d one day find myself sitting in a chair
next to Oprah discussing my latest and greatest novel, which, she’d of course,
love. I’d be on shows like Good Morning
America, on the cover of Essence and Ebony magazines. My name would be posted on the New York Times
and USAToday bestseller lists on the
regular. I would be a literary superstar
goddess!
A decade after the release of my first novel, none of those
things had happened. I found myself working
harder and writing faster then ever before, sacrificing time with my friends
and family. I spent most of my waking
hours behind the screen of my laptop, writing, reading book reviews, obsessing
over my Amazon rankings, spamming folks on social media to make sure that they
knew my next book was about to be released.
And I was still waiting for that one big break, a movie deal, some kind
of national recognition, an award for all my years of hard work, dedication and
passion to the one thing I have always loved doing more than anything. But I felt forgotten, lost in a dizzying maze
of thousands upon thousands of new authors and new releases.
Writers have fragile egos.
All artists do. Our work, our
output, is a product of our most personal and deepest selves. Sure, I write fiction, none of which is based
on my life, but I write it from my heart and soul, and I reach deep inside
myself, past my fears and doubts, wrangling emotions and thoughts that
sometimes scare the hell out of me because, if what I write doesn’t leave me
feeling excited, afraid, heartbroken, sorrow, joy or pain, how can I expect for
my readers to feel any of those things?
It’s gut-wrenching work if it’s done right.
It got to the point when I thought maybe it’s time to walk
away. Maybe I need to retire my pen, get
me a life and focus on doing all those things that I never have time to do
because I have a deadline to meet. I was
tired. I felt that I had failed to
become that successful author that I’d always dreamed of being. I was sad, because I had never achieved all
that I had hoped to achieve. But did I
say that I was tired? I think I did.
So, I made up my mind to turn in that last book and walk
away. Then I got excited about all the
free time I’d have to do all of those things I bitched about not being able to
do because I was writing all the time.
What would I do next if I could do absolutely anything at all? I think I pondered this for several days and
my mind was absolutely blank. All those
things that would come to mind as I was racing home from the day job to hurry
up and write until I could hardly keep my eyes open, those things that seemed
like they’d be so fulfilling, fun, and exciting had all jumped ship from my
brain leaving it a dark and hollow space.
I had no idea of what I would do if I didn’t write. And then I started to feel miserable. Not write?
I mean…for damn near twenty years, that’s all I had been doing, deadline
or no deadline. I had been writing every
single day from the day I’d started working on my first book. The idea of not writing, of not making up one
of my stories, actually started to scare the hell out of me. It saddened me.
I felt trapped. If I
couldn’t think of some other way to live my life, and if not writing made me
sad, then I was doomed to live out my remaining years a miserable, old
woman. Some serious intervention needed
to take place because that just wasn’t an option. Gratitude is a powerful too, one we often
take for granted and overlook unless we win the lottery or something. Ever now and then I remember that, and it was
during this time that I decided to stop tripping and to take a critical and
objective view of my career as it had unfolded.
In recent months, I had come to see myself as a failed
writer, but then I sat down and made a list of everything I’d accomplished in
those twenty years. I asked myself, what
had I set out to accomplish when I first started on this journey, and which of
those goals had been met? When I
finished my list, I realized that I had met every single one of my goals, the
first being to write a full-length novel.
I’d done that. Checked the
box. Next, I’d wanted to get an
agent. Done. I needed to land a publishing contract. Did that.
I wanted to write and have published, ten novels and I’ve got twice as
many books out there now, with more on the way.
Success is funny. We
tend to examine it under the microscope of someone else’s achievements and then
decide that it should look like that for all of us. But that’s a dangerous perspective to
have. There are writers out there
achieving milestones that I find awe inspiring, even enviable. But, there are writers out there who see me
as one of those authors too. We have no
idea what another person is secretly wrestling with underneath the guise of
their successes (or failures). But once
I decided to appreciate who I am and all that I have done, it no longer
mattered what others were doing or how well they were doing it.
I write now, not for money or fame. I write because I was born to. I am a storyteller by nature. It’s my soul’s calling and I’m happiest when
I’m being obedient to that. I love what
I do. And that’s enough.
