PUBLISHING my book

I only have one published novel as I write this, so even though I have many books in my personal files, the book I’m referencing in title refers to the one and only “Twenty-Somethings.”

And man, oh man, has this book been a doozy.

I wrote this book because my brain needed to write it. I felt this all consuming need to get it out my goddamn head, because it wouldn’t leave me alone.

The characters and thoughts wouldn’t let themselves not exist; they just kept throwing themselves in my thought streams like narcissists.

I started seeing everything in the eyes of my characters, almost making me feel crazy (which is fitting for the story).

I battled with if they were real enough, if they executed their stories in a way I found enlightening enough, and if they were taken care of enough. Because, even in the saddest parts of their stories, I still somehow wanted to respect them and love them and honor them.

They’ve been my friends for years, letting me tell my story through them in secret little glimpses while creating a story all anew at the same time.

They aren't me, but I’d be lying if I said they didn’t all have parts of me within them. So much so a Gemini I cloned myself in four different ways and stuck them in four very different worlds. How narcissistic of even myself. I am my mother’s daughter after all.

This book holds such a special portion in my heart, even as I read the mistakes and cringey moments within.

I spent years writing it, and the entire time I struggled with how. I didn’t know how to turn my thoughts and creations into something physical, and it took a lot of time just to learn how to do that in a way that made sense to others. Creating the characters and conversations were technically the easy part (though, also, very hard). Creating the world surrounding these characters in a slow crawl was fucking horrible.

I knew what I wanted to say, and I knew what I wanted to capture. But like them, I knew nothing.

I had glimpses, moments, and connections that I wanted to encapsulate but seemed impossible.

But I think I did it.

Of course, as soon as I published it I thought of a million things I could’ve done differently. I had ideas flowing out of the wazoo, which was infuriating in itself. I probably published it too soon, but I’m a first-timer out here.

I had to constantly battle with thoughts that it wasn’t done, it wasn’t good enough, it wasn’t enough. And I shut them down.

Even today, I know there is a sentence that ends with a comma somewhere and now I am terrified to open the book and see any other errors. I know it’s in there somewhere, but I didn’t look at the page number or I tried to remember the page number and forgot, and in the process I lost it entirely. So it’s there for others to see and note, which drives a part of me mad.

It also drives me mad that there were five copies bought of the wrong manuscript, with errors and even a mistake in names.

I switched the name of Finn’s wife, Shelby, halfway through. In the beginning “Shelby” was “Sarah” and the manuscript I uploaded had me using both names almost interchangeably halfway through.

MORTIFYING.

Disgusting.

I don’t deserve to be a writer.

I fucking suck.

These are all things I’ve told myself, as the mistakes and errors circle my brain in a rapid loop.

What if people don’t get it?

What if people don’t like it?

What if people don’t connect to it?

The questions come through the fog of mental abuse, making me feel unsure of everything inside of myself. Making me unsure of everything I’ve ever done.

But I’ve realized all this centers around not feeling like I’m enough.
In any aspect of life.

I have this idea of perfectionism in my brain that I have had my entire life. I have made sure I have a persona of perfection (what that means to me) in every aspect of my life.

I try to do everything to the absolute best of my ability, from writing my debut novel to doing the dishes. No matter how mundane, how boring, how extraordinary I try to do it excellently.

And yet, it also never feels good enough.

I go to bed every single night with a clean house.

But sometimes the boys’ room gets skipped.

I work the weekends to help with money.

But we still barely make enough.

I take care of the kids during the week so we don’t have to pay for daycare and so somebody else isn’t caring for them.

But I also am bitter that I never get a break.

I teach them their numbers, alphabet, sentence structure, songs, animals, etc. so they’re smart and capable.

But also, are they having too much screen time?

I make sure to make my own laundry soap, buy 90% all natural products, and I don’t even remember the last time we ate out of the home.

But I still feel guilt that we bought the fruit snacks.

I make sure I always have a queue of house projects that needs to get done.

But then I wonder why the list never ends.

I do all these things, I’ve realized, because I strive to be the best I can be. Doing what I can to the best of my ability feels like I’m somehow hacking the Matrix (sometimes I’m just crazy, like when the Dawn dish soap isn’t facing forward and I have to move it back in annoyance).

Yet I always, constantly, a million percent of the time, never feel like I’m accomplishing enough.

I never give myself enough grace to slow down, to breathe, to tell myself it is alright and it will be okay.

And I think it’s because when I do these things, my ego lives.

For I do these things out of love, but I do them with an underhanded contract to the universe that I deserve more because of the work I put in.

When that’s not the case.

The world doesn’t owe me, or you, anything.

I don’t owe you an absolute perfect novel. Even if you do pay for it (after all, it’s the price of a damn coffee and that gets made in two minutes and drank in five).

I don’t owe my husband sex just because it’s “been awhile.”

I don’t owe my kids a clean house when they’re often the ones making the mess.

I don’t owe any single person, or thing, anything.

I want to do these things, don’t get me wrong.

I want to write, and make love, and continue to go to bed with a clean house.

But I want to do it because of my own love of doing so.

And if I’m not loving the process, I need to at least appreciate and love the result enough that I take it in. Breathe within it. Experience the reward of my hard work, and realize that it is all within the journey. The fact it is exists, and I have the ability to do these things, is enough.

No expectation.

No questioning.

No self.

Just being.

Just doing.

And it. is. enough.

Anyways, I wrote a novel.

And it is good enough.

Because I am good enough.

I have to go wipe down my walls now, and give my dogs a bath, and probably change a shitty diaper. But it’s okay.

I love doing so.

I love you.
Have a good day. Enjoy it all.