When You’re a Professional Author, But It’s Not Like You Thought
I was one of those precocious children who grew up wanting to be an author. I loved libraries and reading and telling stories, and when other kids wanted to be vets and firefighters, I was certain I would be a novelist. I read the adventures of Harriet the Spy, the Story Girl, and Amelia’s Notebook; we were all friends and we were all going to grow up to be authors.
And I had a very clear idea of what that would look like and looking back, it’s laughable. I thought I would look excellent in hats but never have hat hair (I watched a lot of Barbara Stanwyck movies), I would be respected somehow and never doubt myself or my work, I would always be fulfilled, and all of my bills would be mysteriously paid. Being an author meant I could become who I was meant to be -- the person who filled the Dorothy Parker vacancy.
I would just follow the simple steps:
Be a genius
Have a killer idea
Write more than 500 words of a given idea
???????????
Publishing fame and fortune
When I graduated from college, I had no idea how to navigate the industry. I knew how to be in workshops, how to ask for feedback, but I didn’t know the rubber to the road parts of writing. I’d never pitched editors, never issued an invoice, never filed business taxes, had no idea what a literary agent was, and thought writing a novel was getting drunk at my laptop and emoting into a Microsoft Word doc.
Over the next ten years, my professional writing career looked like pitching essays, writing marketing copy, publishing poems, and releasing zines. The grind of the small voice in publishing that reached people through their inboxes and mailboxes alike. I was a member of writing groups, performed at open mics, and shaped my voice through figuring out what topics I cared about. And it was exhausting and not what I pictured and, somehow still, glorious. It was a victory, but completely off script. I did not look like Barbara Stanwyck during any of the writing or editing. There were no good hats. There were sweatpants. And spilled coffee and spilled beer. And at no point did I feel like a genius. But I did feel like a writer, and that was almost better.
I consulted with a friend on her memoir, giving notes and helping shape the direction of her self-guided story through the metaphysical (The Witching Year by Diana Helmuth just came out in paperback, look for yours truly in the overalls). From there, an editor on her project reached out to me. And in 2022 I signed my first formal publishing contract with a big five publisher; it wasn’t for a novel. It wasn’t even for a book.
Simon Element, the non fiction imprint of Simon and Schuster, pitched a deck of spells, similar to existing decks of yoga poses and recipes. My deck’s theme was witchcraft and every day spellwork. Rituals to solve everyday problems like bad bosses, being lovelorn, or getting some extra money in your pocket. And while it wasn’t what I had envisioned for my first major publishing contract, the project sounded really cool and I was excited and honored. I negotiated my own contract, worked on the assigned deadline, and Spells for Success: 40 Spells to Set Intentions and Manifest Everyday Wins hits bookstores in January.
The process of writing Spells was really and truly delightful. It felt like a constant puzzle to research and reframe. I got to revisit what first got me interested in esoteric studies, compare to what was available, and improve upon the market. It was fun brainstorming artwork, getting thoughts on the structure, and getting notes on whether any of the spells had to be performed naked (nudity is entirely optional).
But getting this deal was impossible to talk about, because no one understood what it was. Most people have a limited understanding of the publishing process, and every time I’ve explained it to them, they become more confused. So I had this major deal, this really cool project that was encouraging me to experiment, and a blank eyed audience. I felt like I was describing a conspiracy theory.
On the writing side of things, it was refreshing not to be on the hook to dig through my emotions or traumas or write about things I wasn’t attached to, but on stuff I knew from experience and research. I got to try out the best recipes for oils, connect deeply with my own craft practice, and encourage the user to get creative with their spellwork. I was creating something with someone else in mind. I learned being a freelance writer, journalist, and copywriter that writing for an audience was a necessity and “being a genius” was about engaging with an audience as fully as possible. Whether I was writing for nonprofit donors, blog readers, or fiction audiences, they had to connect with me and my message. All of that training was crucial to working on Spells, because it was entirely a project that wasn’t about me. I had to consider what my audience’s challenges or goals were to solve it.
Working on a non-fiction project changed how I got feedback. Everything was very, very clinical whereas writing fiction or personal essays was always more personal. Preserving my voice in the text worked differently, clarity was crucial since I was writing the how and why for spiritual rituals. I got to develop a long term professional working relationship with an editor and that was always helpful and illuminating. I got the publication date pushed three times, which seems to be an industry average. And I had to figure out my promotion responsibilities and what I could do to make this project as successful as possible. I felt like a collaborator in my work instead of like a hermit at it alone.
The biggest lie I told myself about writing was that I would ever not doubt myself. I kept waiting for all of that confidence and certainty I assumed I would have to kick in but it never did. I’m still cautiously plinking at keys on my keyboard hoping to produce magical and enchanting words that inspire and empower, but “hope” is always doing a lot of heavy lifting.
Ultimately, I have no idea if I told the previous version of myself what my life is like that it would impress her. I like to think so, but I’m not really doing this for her anymore. Her love of books got the ball rolling, but it’s up to me now to be proud of me. And I am.
