Publishing a Novel Did Not Change My Life

Newsflash.

Substack Fam, it’s been a minute. A bit over a month, to be exact, which will be the new cadence around here—just so you know.

Why? Mostly, because I’m trying to claw back some time to work on my next novel. And time, lately, has been harder to come by. 

Since we last spoke, I should mention that VICTIM’s release went splendidly. About the best I could have hoped for, to be honest. 

Excellent, thoughtful reviews. Packed-out events chatting with esteemed conversation partners and some seriously engaged, and curious audiences. 

Shit, there are even a dozen or so VICTIM themed—and delicious—beers in my fridge that the Bronx Brewery was kind of enough to whip up especially for my readers. 

As a debut author, I went into this whole endeavor with minimal expectations about how it might go. It’s something I highly recommend, because thus far every little W–the novel’s audiobook companion, for instance, just won an industry award–feels like a surprise. 

And everything that doesn’t happen—no best-seller list, for example—doesn’t feel like a snub because I wasn’t really pining for much in the first place. 

My job, I feel, is mostly done. I wrote the best book I could, put all my weight behind it, pushed it off into the sea of the world, and now I get to sit back and see what happens. 

It’s basically out of my hands. 

Momentum takes over, or it doesn’t. Or perhaps it does way later down the line. The engine gets started up for some reason or another that no one could have possibly predicted, including myself. 

Which is why the only thing that feels worthwhile to focus on now is the next thing. 

To get back into the saddle. To plumb the depths once more, and find comfort in feeling, honestly, about exactly as clueless as I felt most of the time while I was writing VICTIM. 

And that, my friends, is the subject of today’s dispatch.

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There was a long period in my life when I believed that writing a book would change my life. 

Perhaps that doesn’t sound like a weird or unhealthy thing to think for some of you. But for me, this grand vision was toxic. 

The effect it had was not to get me closer to my goal of writing a good book, but the opposite. It stunted me. It choked out my creativity. And it robbed me of the joy of creating simply to create something you’d love to see out in the world. 

I’ve already written about how I righted the ship in the past. I encourage all my new subscribers (hi there, thanks for joining us) to read this, this, and this. 

But now that I’ve crossed over to the other side–a bonafide author person–I’m here to tell you that my suspicions were correct. 

Writing a book, even a book that by all accounts is being received quite well, doesn’t really change your life in the ways that I used to imagine it might. 

Once the book is out, and the rush of attention starts to die down (which it always will, even if you are a best-seller), you’re still the same person. 

Sure, if you’re lucky, you might have some more money in your pockets. And trust me, that’s not nothing. We all got bills to pay. 

Yeah, maybe, you’ll have some opportunities to meet some people in different cities, go on a longer tour, do the college stops, chat with the film producers, take nice pictures, and so on. Which, having done a little of this now, is definitely fun and interesting. 

If you’re lucky, you’ll hear from extremely nice people online who tell you how much they enjoyed your book, how much it moved them, and how happy they are that it exists, which is quite moving and beautiful—every single time that you hear it. 

But at the end of the day, as a writer, you’ll be the same person. 

And by that I mean, the work won’t really get any easier. Sorry.

When you’re published, even when you’re published by one of the Big Five (personally, I’m way more invested in the Big Three… where the fuck you at, Kendrick?) that so many of us like to obsess about and write opinion pieces about, I’m here to tell you that you do not receive access to some secret serum or code that makes the rest of your writing life easier forever and ever. 

You might receive expressed excitement about the chance to read the next thing you produce. The people saying, “I can’t wait to see what’s next!”, for instance. 

But when it comes to actually creating that “next?” Yeah, that’s all you. 

And I’m here to tell you that despite what I think I may have learned about the process of writing a book, actually getting my hands dirty in the venture of creating something new from scratch over the past couple of weeks has felt just as mystifying as most of the process of writing my first book did. 

This might sound scary. But I don’t think it is. To me, it kinda feels like a relief. 

It’s confirmation of something I’ve sort of suspected for a while now. Which is that the process of crafting a good book—a book you’re proud of and that you think will hold up to whatever personal bars you have for yourself—is an inherently difficult, circuitous, and almost impossible to “streamline” process. 

It’s fucking messy as hell, in other words. 

And, from what I can tell, it remains messy as hell the next time you try to do it, even if you’ve succeeded once before. 

So where does that leave you? Well, right back where you started. 

Standing in the midst of a wild, rangy forest, with a thin machete, trying to fight your way through to the other side, and hoping, all the while, that you’re headed in the right direction. 

To my mind, there is something humbling about this. And the understanding that this next thing might come together quickly, or not; or that it might resonate again, or not, ironically gives me the permission, once again, not to overly focus on the outcome of my drafting and playing around. Not to focus on the end product. 

It gives me the permission to focus on the moment. To focus on the joy of trying to crack something new. Trying to express yourself and ideas and thoughts you’ve had, knowing all the while that what you’re trying to describe feels so damn inexpressible. Knowing that you’ll never quite line the two things up, no matter how hard you try. 

There’s something freeing about that. Something that, I’m trying to remind myself, opens up the door to simply chase the fun. Chase the energy, chase the thrill. 

I can hope to God that the chase will prove fruitful. But there is also comfort in the understanding that I’ll never really fucking know for sure. 

So, I might as well enjoy the chase while I can. Find my own pleasure in it, my own validation, and leave the rest up to the mystery of it all. 

Of course, this is easier said than done. 

To keep it real with you: This dispatch is a reminder to myself as much as it is to anyone else out there. A renewing of my own vows, if you will. 

Happy writing. And thanks, as always, for reading. 

Peace, 

Andrew 

RECOMMENDATIONS: 

1. Los Frikis, an excellent, independent film I was lucky enough to watch premiere at the Miami Film Festival earlier this month. It’s one of the most beautiful and entertaining films I’ve ever seen and I hope it cleans up during awards season.

2. For those following the Drake and Kendrick Lamar rap beef: The Joe Budden Podcast. I’ve never listened to Joe’s podcast before, but as a hip-hop fan, and a fan of competitive rap, I’ve recently found it to be a coveted resource to help break down the simmering beef between two of rap’s titans, and the strategy behind modern day diss records. 

3. This excellent essay by

   Fernando Sdrigotti
   analyzes the sadness that published authors often express, and are paid to express in publications, drowning publicly in their woes about having done something quite cool. It makes a nice companion piece to my dispatch this week. 

4. This thoughtful New York Times piece on Keith Haring’s legacy, and his interesting approach to how art should be consumed and purchased.