Slouching Towards New Orleans

The Mothership Newsletter

Hello and welcome to Sitting in Silence, the newsletter and podcast about writing, craft, worry, and joy. We’re celebrating three years of community. Thank you for tuning in.

It’s been a busy few months to say the least. And I’m finally coming up for air. This is why I’ve had more podcast episodes and fewer newsletters (and interviews) than normal lately. It takes a lot of effort to put together 1,000 words in a readable form and even more work to produce a good interview, but as a Chatty Cathy, I can talk forever without breaking a sweat. Not that I’m complaining. As I see it, there are two kinds of busy: the busy you crave and the busy you abhor. One feeds you. The other starves.

When I was a corporate lawyer, I often found myself in the middle of a 15-hour swing of working on a brief about some obscure issue for a faceless conglomerate. At most, four other people would ultimately read such a brief: my boss, the opposing lawyer, their junior attorney (my counterpart), the judge, and judge’s clerk (my other counterpart). The work was financially rewarding. Technically, I got paid hundreds of dollars an hour. But don’t get it twisted. Most of that money went to my overlords, their kids’ private school tuition, and probably a yacht or overdue Botox. Don’t ask me. I was on the working drudge side of that line.

Still, the work was even sometimes personally rewarding. After all, burrowing into things that absolutely no one else cares about is part and parcel of being a writer. We authors love our special interest topics. But I also felt I could put my talents to better use.

Recently, my plate has looked something like this: I teach three times a week at LSU. A meeting every 10 days or so with colleagues. I judged The Story Prize contest. I toured in support of the paperback edition of The American Daughters. (Thanks to everyone who preordered. You really helped!) I visit with Mama, make sure she’s ok. As well as moderating the events of other writers in my community. My friends sometimes ask if I have a clone or something. Why don’t I seem tired or at least grumpy? Because this is the busy I chose. I worked for years to get to this kind, type, and variety of busy.

I left out a lot of detail in the above paragraph because I don’t want to bore you. But the major thing I left out was that I was on deadline working on my upcoming book.

For those who don’t know, what’s that like? It’s the most peaceful and serene situation imaginable. Officials from the local chapter of the Writers Lollipop Guild show up at your door to provide three meals daily in a picnic basket. Broad-chested men or gracious maidens stop by to feed you jumbo grapes *record scratch* Obviously, I’m joking. Mostly.

As I often say, writing a book is one of the most rewarding things a person can do. Anyone who’s a long-time follower of this space knows that I’m a huge proponent of leaning into the pleasure of story-making. When you write, your joyous self should be in the driver's seat. Leave doubt in the trunk like a disgraced Capo in a Scorsese movie.

Still, I’ve probably undersold the difficulty of bringing a book from the ether and into the world. Essay continues after schedule notes.

---

I love L.A.!: Catch me at various comings and going at America’s largest writing conference, AWP. THIS WEEK!

No joke: First week of April, I’ll be at the University of Cincinnati’s Visiting Writer Series

Remember that night in Annapolis?: I’m a featured author at the Annapolis Book Festival the first weekend of May. And now back to our newsletter.

---

The other day, I was talking to a young student about the future. She expressed worry about meeting her goal of becoming a successful writer. One of my colleagues chimed in that worry comes with the territory. But if you set out on your path, it’ll become worth it. The journey is half the fun, especially if taken with a sense of discovery and adventure. The alternative is to do nothing. To sit in terror and become bitter.

Art is unpredictable. I never knew for sure if I would ever publish a book. But I had faith. That faith led to three books. I spent a lot of time over the last couple of years working on book four. I worked on it in the Hudson Valley last summer, surrounded by hill-top monasteries. I worked on it in my humble pied-à-terre, near my university job. I worked on it in Senegal, a few hundred yards from the Atlantic Ocean, as fishermen puttered by in their long boats. Young men, often teens, stood on the narrow prows, daring the water to claim them. But they always came home with a boatload of oceanic bounty.

The final book will probably come in under 300 pages, but I wrote at least 500. In the fall, I felt lost, even as I discovered new plot points and became better acquainted with my characters.

Heck, if you would have asked me even a month ago, as someone did, how the book was going, I would have candidly said, “terribly. This book is recalcitrant. It refuses to be born.” I told someone a version of this. They didn’t say much. Just a tight-lipped smile that I read as “you poor man, you poor silly lost man.” But about three weeks ago, something incredible happened.

I printed up the best pages. I read through them with a mark-up pen. My conclusions will sound ridiculous and self-congratulatory. Still, when I read through it all, my main thoughts were that I needed to finish work on the finale, but that I was a good writer and I’d done good work. Perhaps my very best work.

It’ll be my editor’s job, first, to judge how well I’ve done. And when it hits the shelves, it’ll be your job.

I have a new savannah of gray hair that sprouted while writing this book. And some fresh wrinkles around my eyes. They came from the worry I squeezed from my brain and the laughter I felt when things went well. I wouldn’t have it any other way. It beats tilling someone else’s garden. It beats collecting someone else's harvest.

Say hi if you’re out there. It’s good to know you’re doing well.