Back in February, I turned 39 and immediately fell off the cliff of a midlife crisis. To be specific, I reflected that I had done nothing much in the first half of my life but prepare for doing things later. Having arrived at later, it seemed to me I really ought to be doing something now that could be neatly summarized if, at a cocktail party, someone were to ask me What I Do.
I have never been able to answer that question in a word, a phrase or a even anywhere near a single sentence and I still can't. But I suddenly felt the dire need to be able to do so by the time I hit 40.
Cole thought this was really silly (what does she know? She's 52), insisting that I couldn't answer the question neatly because I am far too interesting and complex and multitalented. It's nice when one's partner feels this way about one--I would say the same of her, but she also has a tidy answer to the cocktail party question: College Professor.
So I panicked and called the rector of my new church and met with him and told him I needed to put together a discernment committee for purposes of discerning what to do with the rest of my life. He was amenable and told me to keep showing up for a few months and ask again. So I was happy with that for a time.
Then one day, a silly platitude popped into my head from nowhere and it was this one: "What would you do today if you knew you couldn't fail?" I don't know why I thought of it. But I did, and my answer was, "write the novel that has been developing itself in my head for the better part of a decade." And so I sat down and wrote it. Pretty much Just Like That. I think it took something along the lines of 10 weeks, but I didn't count.
Then I thought of my catchy, silly platitude again, and realized, that if I could not fail, I would certainly pitch the literary agent of one of my very favorite writers who is a lesbian, but who has had some extraordinary mainstream success. So I did that. It is she whose opinion I am waiting to hear now and one week has passed of the two she asked me to give her to get back to me.
I am bracing myself for rejection, but have a short-list of back up plan agents and will move on as necessary. All the same, I never thought, three months ago, I would have a more or less completed novel (a good, solid, draft anyway) and the first-level interest of my dream agency by now.
But when I start to feel that maybe I should have done this a long time ago, I stop because the fact is I was not ready to do this until now. But now I am really, really ready now. I am almost perfectly ready.
Years ago, I stopped writing fiction. I slowed way, way down on writing poetry too. There are many voices in my head telling me that People Don't Really Do That Sort of Thing. I'm aware of where some of them come from, but not others. But the long and short of it is that for most of my life I have been following what I imagined was a practical Plan B that would realistically allow me to be a grown up and make a living.
Except I have never, ever, ever made a living. In spite of denying myself a flighty creative career. So here I am with practical--or at least employable--skills and degrees and no career of any kind, really. So what the heck, why not go ahead and be flighty? What have I got to lose?
So I've written this book and for those past ten weeks, I'd say my head has been absolutely in the clouds. I have not felt this excited and in love since Nat was born. (I leave out Selina only because, poor kid, she wasn't the first.) I thoroughly and absolutely love writing long-form fiction. And should I sell this one and the next several (I have sequels, prequels, and concurrent stories related to this first one all swirling in my head already), I am not likely to make any less money than I'm making now, doing various things I enjoy enough, but am not head-over-heels in love with.
I feel quite certain that I will sell this book. I am only in suspense about how well I can sell it and whether I can get a multiple-book contract from someone. But that "I'm almost 40" switch just flipped on and inspired me to try for the best possible outcome which I've never bothered to do before. I've always been an underachieving settler. I feared failure. But I have no fear of failing at this. It feels altogether too much like exactly what I should be doing. I only have questions about how successful my success will be. And I have truly never felt that way about a single thing before. I have always aimed low to avoid failure and I have always had a good, strong case of impostor syndrome whenever I did succeed. This? This is just plain who I am. Period.
So by February next, I plan to be able to shake the hands of strangers and tell them without flinching, that:
I am a novelist.
