Why I Almost Gave up Writing for Good. And What Saved Me.

I've been writing ever since I learned to move around letters of the alphabet to create words. And for as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a writer. When I self-published my first novel Rubber City Ruins, I was living the dream. All my friends and family bought it, and it was such an amazing feeling. It was the starting line to a long and (what I thought would be) rewarding journey.

And like most childhood dreams, becoming a successful author was as wild a dream as being an astronaut. And I quickly discovered I'd have an easier time landing myself on the moon than a book deal.

Every subsequent book floundered. Miserably. Mostly because I didn't take the time to market them. But the shiny new "up and coming" author title faded, and I became washed away in the flood of more productive writers.

After Mercuryville (my Covid-Lockdowns weird fever dream of a book) didn't see much traction, I was done writing. It wasn't a passionate quitting story where I flipped over a desk and spit in my boss's face. It was a calm sigh that said, "Well, I guess I should move on to better things." I bought a sketchbook and thought about writing children's books or something. My mom once told me she thought I'd be good at that.

And here's where the story gets a little weird. A little metaphysical. I'm not the type of human to believe in signs. I don't think being a Libra has any bearing on who I am as a person. There are no muses in the ephemeral abyss looking for meat sack vehicles. Well, that last one may actually be true.

I went to bed one night and had this wild dream. I wasn't in it (like I am in most dreams). It was a story about two people in a run-down house. I woke up and could still smell the moldy water-stained paneling. I could remember the house numbers. Before I even lifted my head from the pillow, I said "THIS IS A BOOK."

I feverishly wrote down an outline, and over the next two months, my fourth book Jiro poured from my soul. It was unlike any book I've ever written before. I spend every waking moment thinking about the plot, and the characters. I lit me up like every day was Christmas morning. And after two months, it was done. And I have to be a little honest- I got a little depressed when I finished it. I love these characters so much, it was a hard pill to swallow that I no longer had to think about them every day. Writing Jiro made me remember why I loved writing and telling with every fiber of my being.

My Passion Project: Jiro.

So, what saved me? It wasn't a retreat I went on, or a workshop I took, or a long, soul-searching conversation with a friend. What saved me was relinquishing the pressure for success. The moment I gave up was the moment inspiration struck. I stopped writing for other people, or what I thought other people would like to read. Jiro was 100 percent FOR ME. I wrote untethered, without that clawing voice in the back of my head saying "Your mother may read this one day." I wrote under the impression that no human would ever read it. And that's what made it so amazing.

We put so much pressure to live up to our potential and always seek self-improvement that it can get in our own way. The moment I gave up was the very moment the writing muses reached out to me and said "Here, this is for you."

It sounds so sappy- and that's not me at all. But it's what happened.

And it's why I get so sad when no one reads Jiro. I know how special it is. I know it was a story that was stranded in the abyss and just needed a meat sack like me to bring it to life. I seasoned it with style and found little pieces of myself along the way. Ugh, typing that sentence was painful- but it's true. There are so many pieces of me in that book, and all I wish for is another pair of eyeballs to read it.

So, what's the message here? If you are struggling with inspiration, stop white-knuckling the wheel. Relax, absorb the world around you, and when inspiration comes- drop everything you are doing and answer the call.

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