Issue 12: My year in writing (and rejection)
Welcome back to my newsletter where I share short, poorly edited notes about stuff I find interesting.
I’m trying to find a beginning for this that doesn’t feel cliche. Something something what a year. Something something pause to reflect. My urge to lapse into bland boosterism is almost as powerful as the opposing urge to fill your inbox with self-criticism that might genuinely lower your opinion of me.
Instead, let’s talk about reflection for a moment. I used to hate reflection. I used to think it was cheesy and embarrassing to pay much attention to what I’d done in the past and make plans for the future. I think that had to do with feeling out of control of the conditions of my existence—when you’re desperately treading water, it feels foolish to expend energy exploring your surroundings.
I’m now in a place where I’ve built a solid enough foundation that I can pause and look around once in a while. If some of the things I notice are frustrating or disappointing? Well, that’s the nature of the writing business, of any kind of creation, really. I’ve had (and seen) enough success and failure to know that both are temporary, and many of the factors that cause them are fully out of my control. I can’t make publishing trends fit what I want to write, for example, only wait for them to swing my way, and do the work I need to do in the meantime. I’m coming to accept that I’m not the kind of writer who chooses projects according to what’s hot right now.
For the past few years, I’ve done an exercise called Year Compass (recommended, I think, by genius podcaster and writer Hannah McGregor—go buy her new book, it’s great), which is basically a series of questions aimed at guiding you to reflect on the past year and set intentions for the year ahead.
When I did the exercise this time around, one part of me thought, “look what I’ve achieved!” while the other made a despairing gesture toward all that remains unfinished, the near misses, the chasms between hope and outcome. These warring impulses will probably never resolve, but I think both are useful. To go back to a previous metaphor, the celebration keeps me above water while the frustration keeps me swimming forward because, frankly, I’m way too far from the shore at this point to turn back.
So here’s what it comes down to. Aside from this newsletter, I’ve only published a few pieces of writing. This is only remarkable because there was a time when I published at a far greater pace, but the work I did wasn’t terribly satisfying. This list is short, but each item is work I can get behind.
Two of my publications were news articles, which were both fascinating to research and write. The first was about groundbreaking work in mental health research using therapeutic psychedelics. The second was about the work of a researcher who has been creating recreational programming for queer and trans kids. Though I love the reporting process, I sometimes feel an impulse to sequester my news writing from my creative work. I think I need to let go of that—the two feed each other in interesting and complex ways.
The third work I published was a personal essay for the Walrus about living near mansions and feeling haunted by housing insecurity. This one was more in line with my creative ambitions, and I hope to do much more like it in the new year.
Much more of what I’ve accomplished this year has been behind the scenes. I taught some new classes and refined some older ones. I finished that memoir draft in late August and I’ve been busy outlining and revising over the last few months. I’ve also been submitting and applying like a wild woman—some of that has already lead to clear rejection, a few of those dreaded form letters, a couple of friendly calls to apply again later. Other seeds I’ve planted have already begun to sprout, and the rest lay secret beneath layers of soil and snow. Who knows what flowers will appear in next year’s garden? That part is out of my control.
I hope that if you’re able to pause and reflect in the next few weeks, you will see both your successes and failures as small points in the vast mural of your career and your life. Learn from them what you can and let them both go.
If you want to share some of what you learned in your reflections, find me on Twitter (while it’s still around) or even Mastodon where I’m @ethorkel@mstdn.ca. If you'd like to read more or subscribe, you can do so here.
Happy Holidays and best wishes for the New Year,
~Erika