Be Patient

the most important writing advice I have to give

At some point in the last seven or so years, all my writing advice became life advice. Oh, I still have some practical tips about brainstorming or writing action scenes or how I go about revising. But when people say “what’s one piece of advice you have for a young writer/writer who wants to be traditionally published/debut author/etc.?” I’ve started to automatically express something deeper, something about values or priorities or personal growth.

People’s eyes then tend to glaze over; they weren’t asking me to teach them about being human, and you know what? That’s fair. But at a certain point, I realized no amount of practical advice was going to ease people through the actual challenges of writing. People mostly learn about the particulars of writing books by…writing books. And they don’t really need me for that; they need themselves. They need to show up for themselves every single goddamn day. And I can’t give them a handy trick for that.

My actual advice? Learn patience.

Patience is not sexy. It’s not a cool trick. It doesn’t feel good. It’s not going to get people to share this newsletter far and wide, praising its helpfulness. It is, however, the thing you need. I need. We all need. So I’m going to try to talk about patience in a new way—in the way that I understand it. And maybe that will help.

COURSE-CORRECTION

I used to drive a Honda Civic. It was a fantastic car. In the decade that I drove it, the only maintenance it required was a brake pad replacement. But it had its quirks—for example, it was so lightweight that at speeds greater than forty miles per hour, any amount of wind pushed it off course, so I had to learn to steer against the wind. It’s not a big deal. Just a little tug at the wheel every few seconds.

I think about it whenever I sit down to meditate, which I try to do somewhat regularly, not because I enjoy it (I do not), but because I have an anxiety disorder and I’m told it helps (I resent this). The expectation that I can force my brain to stay present feels absurd, yet I’ve come to learn that blankness is not actually the goal of meditation. Instead, it’s the steering of thoughts. You find yourself thinking about that thing you said earlier— nope, go back to the breath. You’re worried about what’s going to happen later— back to the breath. Just a little tug at the wheel every few seconds.

BE PRESENT, NOT PERFECT

My sister once got my stepdad a Cubs t-shirt (or maybe he got it for her? I can’t remember) that said this once. Be present, not perfect. I don’t think we can credit Joe Maddon with the quote, exactly, but it was his philosophy in coaching and it really stuck in my head. I’m thinking of it this morning as I try to practice patience.

I’m waiting to hear back from several people about several important things, work-related and not, right now. Some of them are on vacation; some are on leave; some are just taking a reasonable amount of time to get back to me. On some level, my body registers this as frustrating. I feel agitated. I’ve been mad at the dog for days (don’t worry, I’m still being nice to her).

You might not call this patience just to look at it. I’m obviously on edge. But I don’t think of “patience” as a state of utter calm. I think of it as the struggle to be present. At this very moment, my task is to write this newsletter. Every few seconds my mind wanders in its agitation. Every few seconds I tug the wheel, return to the present, write another few sentences. Over and over again.

Patience is tedious. Patience is repetitive. Patience is being present.

the first time I was ever referred to as a “published author”

LET THE PAST DIE…

My actual philosophy is, and I really mean this: fuck dreams. I don’t tell people this very often. It’s personal, for one thing, not something I think everyone needs to adopt. And for another thing, I know what they’ll say. It’s important to have dreams! Sure, fine, I guess. Is it, though?

If you’re a dreamer, good for you. I recognize that I have walked a very particular path and it’s only because of the privileges that path has afforded me that I can even say “fuck dreams” with a straight face. So as I said, it’s not like…a recommendation. But I’ll tell you about it anyway.

The strangest thing about my career trajectory has been how, when Divergent came out and became successful, I achieved a long list of writer dreams all at once. Bestseller lists and sales records and multiple movie adaptations and big important interviews and absurdly fancy parties. I was on national television and on a red carpet in a designer dress and on a movie set having a chat with Tony Goldwyn about his kids. Like, really, and I cannot emphasize this enough: whoa.

On its face: very cool. Beneath the surface: I was terrified and naive and in many ways innocent to the way the industry worked and so uncomfortable surrounded by super attractive, well-known people that I could barely eat. Like, ever. (It’s an anxiety thing. It’s not great.) I remember standing at one of the aforementioned fancy parties and thinking, this is it. This is the dream. Only I didn’t mean it in that starry-eyed “wow I appreciate the wonder of all this” way. I meant it like: oh. This is what people dream about, and I have it, and I feel out of place and wrong and scared and hungry and this dream doesn’t feel good.

In those moments, in the nicest clothes I’d ever worn, surrounded by a big ol’ pile of hotties, having achieved all those dreams, I realized only this: I truly, desperately, and deeply wanted to go home. Home, to my sweet little dog and my happy marriage and…my writing.

To me, dreams are often like this. This glossy, idealized version of a thing that, when you achieve it, lets you down because the reality of it simply can’t measure up. But you know what’s pretty great in my reality? Husband. Dog. Friends. Family. Writing. I like my work. I like my life. I like myself. That’s the dream, realized.

Bestseller lists, movie adaptations, sales records, don’t get me wrong, they’re great. But it’s important to keep them in their proper place. They didn’t make me happy, they didn’t make me hotter or more special or more loved. They were great because they helped me build the everyday life I am fervently grateful for. Full stop.

I guess I do have dreams now, but my dreams are ordinary.

living the dream

…KILL IT IF YOU HAVE TO.

I’m aware that none of this is relatable. But I swear I have a point. Those fancy, glitzy party dreams are a lot like your dreams of what your book can be when it’s finished. You can spend a lot of time, in your mind, with the imagined success of your book. Its beautiful cover and its face-out bookstore promotion and its stellar reviews and all the wonderful things readers will say about it. You can also spend a lot of time with the idea of what your story will be when it’s done. How it will explore this theme or that theme, how it will have this or that kind of polished, beautiful prose, how it will introduce a whole new subgenre of whatever.

OR…hear me out: you can meet your book where it is. Look at what it is. What’s working? What isn’t? What is it actually saying, vs. what you dreamed it would say?

Patience is this: the commitment to wrestling with your book to make it the best version of itself, not the glossy, idealized dream of what you wanted it to be at the start.

Patience is this: the commitment to wrestling with yourself as you realize the ways in which your subconscious has leaked out onto the page in ways you didn’t anticipate. As you accept what kind of writer you are and what kind of writer you aren’t. As you decide what the difference is between pushing yourself to grow and trying to force yourself into a mold that doesn’t suit you. Set big goals for yourself, but know yourself.

Patience is wrestling. Patience is being aware of the end goal without fixating on it. Patience is looking at what is instead of what isn’t real. Patience is being present—not perfect.

PRESENCE

On days when I’m not patient, I’m refreshing. The inbox, the social media, my messages. Over and over again, the lab rat pushing the lever.

On days when I’m patient, I still check things. The inbox, the social media, the messages. I’m only human. But then I tug the steering wheel, open up my draft, and write. And in those moments, I’m not thinking about my word count or my chapter goal for the day or letting the pressure of what I hope this book can become crush me. I’m with the characters in the story, earnestly trying to figure out the best way to tell it.

What will my career be, now, tomorrow, in five years? What will this book become? Or the next one? Or the next one? Do I have dreams for those things? Sort of. I can’t help it, I guess. But I let those dreams stay blurry and far away from me.

Mostly, I’m here. And I’m patient.