Success Doesn’t Require Stickers or Lists

On recognizing and celebrating small wins that don’t make headlines, but still matter.

Shoutout to my man Eddie for the flick!

While I was away on vacation last week, a friend of mine in New York City sent me a photo of a woman reading the recently released paperback version of my debut novel, Victim, on the train. This was the first time I’d been privy to a random train reader, which, for whatever reason, felt like a very big deal to me. A moment worth celebrating, in fact.

You see, I grew up taking the trains all over New York City. And by the time I was a teenager, and pretty sure that I wanted to give this writing thing a real shot, my favorite things to do on the train were to read and to look at what other people were reading.

The book covers I saw as the subway zipped through the city felt like the more immediate and honest version of a bookshop window. Here were the novels and the non-fiction books that the people were reading. They had not been selected by a thoughtful bookseller, or a massive corporation, but rather by the people who’d spent their hard earned money on a title and were now brandishing it out in public. As a result, I found it meaningful to peek at the titles and get a sense of what was penetrating the culture, and also, to try and get a sense of who the person reading the book was—and what they were into.

To be honest, one of the few things I miss about living in New York City—aside from my beloved family and friends that I grew up with and that raised me, Citi Field, the coco, mango, cherry pushers in the summer, and the superior cuisine—is not being able to ride the trains and read on them, and not being able to see reading occur in public like this. As a kid with big literary dreams, there was always something beautiful about knowing I wasn’t alone as a reader.

In any case, what I’m trying to convey is that seeing my novel on the train felt like an important marker; an important moment to stop, take in, and savor. Even if that woman on the train who had her picture secretly taken by my boy was thinking to herself at that very moment “this book is hot garbage, why did I waste my money on this shit?” and planned to throw the book into the tracks when she got off, it felt like a win just to see my novel pass the MTA test.

As I mulled this over in Colombia, I realized that little photo mattered not just because it was cool, but because it tapped into something deeper I’ve been grappling with for a while now as a writer: What kinds of recognition actually matter, or can matter, if we let them. It got me thinking more seriously about awards, attention, and what we’re really chasing when we publish a book—or work toward publishing one.

Just before I left for vacation with my family, I got word that the only big, public award that my novel was nominated for—The Gotham Book Prize—was going to be awarded to somebody else. The nomination came with accompanying articles, a nice sticker placed on my book in a social media graphic, a lot of nice messages from friends and readers, and, of course, the seductive promise of winning 50 bands.

The buzz was fun, and I sure as hell could have used the dough (I got house repairs and daycare bills out the ass to pay for). But I made a conscious effort early on to feel content with just being nominated. When the news came that I didn’t win, I was genuinely fine. I’d already decided it was a win in my book. In fact, over the past year—and really, even earlier, during the drafting of my novel and the lead-up to publication—I’ve been trying to train myself all the while to celebrate smaller, less visible victories. The ones that don’t come with stickers or headlines, but that matter just as much.

I’m talking about things like seeing my book out on the train, of course. But also things like receiving an incredible blurb from a writer I’ve long admired, a nice email from a reader, a moving remark at an event, a thoughtful Goodreads review, an encouraging text message from a friend. I really try to stop and pay attention when someone says my novel made them feel seen, or made them want to write themselves, or that it was the first novel they’d read for fun in a long time and now they planned to read more.

These moments aren’t as glitzy as a prize nomination or a grant. They don’t come with grand announcements or social media graphics or prestige press coverage or trophies. But in my mind, I’ve tried to make a deliberate effort to hold them to the same regard.

The reason here is twofold. One, it helps to keep me grounded and not get swept up in industry stuff. And two, in my mind, these smaller moments—if you allow yourself to frame them as such—can be just as important and meaningful as the traditionally thought of “big” moments. The trick is to force yourself to slow down, notice them, and appreciate them.

In the lead-up and aftermath of publishing a novel, there’s a lot to wait on. A lot to wonder about. Will you make that long list? Will you get one of those year-end or mid-year mentions? Will you be invited onto those buzzy podcasts? Will you get that big review? That call from Oprah? There’s a lot of, will you get this or that?

It’s mad easy to spiral. Mad easy to watch other writers rack up recognitions maybe you thought you deserved and start to question your own work. To grow bitter. Or even worse, devalue what you made and accomplished.

The internet doesn’t help, of course. You have Goodreads ratings, Amazon rankings, sales dashboards, BookTok trends, the accounts of big-time Instagram influencers—it’s all trackable, scrollable, gamified. You can watch your numbers tick up or stall out. In a world like this, success can often start to resemble a scoreboard. And if the numbers don’t seem to be going your way, it’s tempting to call it a loss.

But I think that’s a mistake. What I’m trying to do—or, what I’m advocating for here at least—is to resist that thinking. To, as cliche as it sounds, stop and smell the roses.

If you’ve published a book, that might mean try focusing less on what didn’t happen, and more on what did: the DM from a stranger who read your book in two days, the text from an old friend who hadn’t read a novel in years, the Goodreads or Amazon or Storygraph review that really gets what you were trying to do, the photo of your book on someone’s nightstand, the classroom or book club discussion you hear about weeks after the fact.

If you’re still working toward publication, you might stop and savor moments along the way, like finishing a draft, printing it out and seeing that stack of pages for the first time, sending it off to an agent or editor, getting your first “let me see more pages,” or even just finding a line in revision that finally says what you’ve been trying so hard to say.

The celebrations don’t need to be extravagant. Personally, I like a glass of white wine myself. But it could also be a snack you love, a quiet journal entry, a chat about it over dinner with someone you care about. Whatever. The bigger point is to claim the moment for yourself. Don’t wait for an institution or an algorithm to crown it as meaningful. Believe it or not, you actually have the power to decide what’s worth celebrating on this journey.

And while you’re at it, put some good energy back into the world. Do your part to create these moments for someone else. Tell a writer you love their work. Share something about their book online. Send the DM or the email. There’s a very good chance it’ll reach them—and that these little buoys will mean more to them than you realize.

If you’ve published a book, what are some small moments you’ve taken the time to celebrate? What made them stick with you? And if you’re still on the road to publication, how do you stop and savor the process along the way? Drop a note in the comments—I’d love to hear how you’re honoring wins that don’t make headlines, but that still matter to you.

Peace,

Andrew