I Quit. Again.

There is a tiny flame that burns deep within a writer. A pilot light. In moments – some lingering, some fleeting – that pilot light sparks to life and becomes a furnace of ideas. Great books have been stitched together from such moments.

These are not sweet and beautiful moments. There are no butterflies whispering perfect words into your ears. There are no fairies singing songs of your literary brilliance. These are pain-filled moments where orcs threaten you with bodily harm and the flame itself threatens to incinerate your soul.

Your fingers fly across the keyboard not in delight, but chasing fire. You fear the unpredictable flame, as well you should, but the end of it more.

So you type and type and type and type and type like a rocking horse winner, praying that it will be a refining fire that melts away everything except the truth and not a conflagration that burns your city of ideas to the ground.

Without warning, it fades. It recedes. It dims. Your fingers slow. So too, your body, your brain, your belief in yourself.

Your hope.

The once-febrile world inside your head grows cold. Doubt thrives in the cold.

“You can’t heat a room with a pilot light,” it says.

“Just test the words in your mouth,” it tempts. “You know the ones.”

I quit.

(The words taste like ashes and rust. And oddly, like candy.)

Some have said that what defines a writer is an unavoidable compulsion to write. “I can’t not write,” they proclaim. But what if that’s a lie? What if you can quit?

What if you could close the laptop, put down the pen, and walk away. Go back to living in the moment instead of filing every observation away for future consideration by firelight.

It should be easy. Just say these two words. Recite this incantation. This promise.

I quit.

It would be so easy, but for the problem of sparks. They’re everywhere.

In a song

In a laugh

In a vacant look from the stranger who is watching you write a blogpost from across a crowded coffee shop

If you are a writer, your pilot light can not be extinguished. It will continue to burn, faint and blue. Waiting.

In a vacant look from the stranger…SPARK!

Damn. I was hoping it would stick this time.

I think I just un-quit.

“There are two kinds of ache in a writer’s life – the ache of writing and the ache of not writing. Pick one and live with it.” – Me

So What?

Right now, you’re thinking one of these things:

  • “My novel sucks.”
  • “What if no one buys my book?”
  • “I got a one-star review!”
  • “I got a hundred five-star reviews!”
  • “I don’t know if I have what it takes to be a writer.”

And right now, I’m thinking this: So what?

Does your novel suck? Maybe. Maybe not. Some of the best books I’ve edited arrived from the author with a side of Severe Doubt. “It might make you ill.” It didn’t. Conversely, some of the worst books I’ve edited arrived from the author with a side of Unwarranted Confidence. “I think it’s really good.” It wasn’t. Most authors struggle to accurately assess their own writing. Here’s why: familiarity. Remember those sentences you wrote that surprised you? The ones that made you wonder if a brilliant writer broke into your office just to mess with you? Well, you’ve read them twelve hundred times, and now they just look old and tired. Does your writing suck? Let someone else determine that. Like an editor. If the answer is “well, it’s not great,” then at least you know you’re a pretty good judge of writing (and you know you have work to do). And if not? Lighten up, okay?

So what if no one buys your book? Does that mean it’s a terrible book? No. Does it mean you’re a terrible writer? No. It might mean those things, but it also might mean that you’ve simply not done enough work marketing it. Or that the market is saturated with books like yours and only one or two are getting all the attention. But let’s back up a moment. You’re posing a “What if…?” question. Stop it. Just stop. No good comes from such thoughts. Write your book. Learn all you can about how to market it. Then do the best you can with what you know. If after all that you still only sell a hundred? Well, until you write another one and sell 101, that’s your bestseller. Celebrate it.

You got a one-star review? A real one? Congratulations! Someone read your book and had an emotional reaction to it. Yeah, they hated it. But they read it. Isn’t that why you wrote the book – so people would read it? All authors (especially successful ones) face the dreaded “one-star review” at least once in their career. The people who write one-star reviews are not your target audience. Perhaps they’d hoped they could be. But they aren’t. A one-star review is their way of admitting this. Be glad for it. Wish them well. Then let it go.

About those 100 five-star reviews. Yippee for you! But be careful. If you let positive reviews go to your head, you’re going to start associating your self-worth with stars. This is a dangerous game. Because you’re going to get some of those one-star reviews, too. Or worse, two-star reviews. (The horror!) Suddenly you’re only a 4.39. Or worse, a 4.38! No. No. No. You’re not. You are not your review score. You are more than stars, my friend. Far more. Enjoy the stars for what they are (thank-you’s from readers), then let them go.

And finally, all writers wonder if they have what it takes to be a writer. It’s part of the job description to ponder this question weekly (or daily, or monthly, or hourly). Welcome to the club. But there’s really only one question you should be asking yourself: do you want to write? If the answer is “yes,” then write. If the answer is “no,” then stop trying. Yeah, writing takes dedication and diligence and time and blah, blah, blah. But mostly it’s just about the “yes.” Sometimes you’ll have the confidence to shout it. Sometimes you’ll barely be able to squeak it. But the “yes” is enough. It’s always enough.

So, what now? Write. That’s what.