I Can't Stop Trying

My last Substack was titled ‘If I Stop Trying, Will It Happen?’ and it was about the agent querying process, my growing frustrations, and the general sense of what the fuck is the point of all this hard work. I found myself stuck between wanting to give up on my memoir entirely and wanting to devote myself so entirely to it I’d be fired from my day job because of missing Teams meetings and writing.

Reader, I never stopped trying.

I can’t stop trying. This book has been with me for more than a decade.

Drinking coffee at the dining room table on a Tuesday morning I received an email from The Cincinnati Review. I expected it to be the same rejection email I’ve gotten thrice from the contest I submit to annually but it instead was an enthusiastic acceptance, a congratulations, a ‘please let this essay still be available.’ One of my most sought after lit mags chose my essay as their award winner.

The title essay of my memoir, Paradise is Ours, was chosen by the Cincinnati Review. It won $1,000 (which is not nothing in writing world, considering the National Book Award is $10,000… but also like MAYBE I’ll break even from all of the contests and publications I’ve submitted to the last five years lol) and it’s going to be published in print Spring 2025.

The news came at a great time— my husband Hans surprised me with an overnight trip to Santa Barbara for our second wedding anniversary. He got us tickets to see Kacey Musgraves and a nice boutique hotel right on the coast. It was an especially touching gift— I’d originally had tickets to see Kacey in LA with a friend, but due to the dissolution of that friendship I lost my ticket. My husband finding this opportunity moved me. What’s lost is never really lost. Or maybe it is but there’s wins amongst the losses, IDK.

So we went to Santa Barbara with the knowledge of my win. The weather was California dreamy, bright and warm in the sun, breezy. We visited my favorite Turkish Delight store, Lokum, got lunch at Tamar (the sesame ricotta whipped dip…. wow), laid on the beach and watched pelicans. In the hotel room I donned my robe, opened the windows to hear the ocean, and read the beginning pages of Intermezzo, Sally Rooney’s new masterpiece. We ordered expensive takeout and before long found ourselves singing along to Kacey.

After the concert, tired but wired and awake, I took a long shower. The fact of the win hit me square in the forehead. I whispered to myself, ‘you did it so feel it.’ Joy flooded my nervous system and I squealed and danced underneath the shower head. On the glass wall of the shower I dragged my pointer finger, making delicate swirls before I wrote three things:

1. See! The writing is good

2. I’ve worked really hard for this

3. This book is for my family

It was a moment where I let myself actually have the win. Giddiness! What a feeling. And, too, I wanted to arm myself against the anxiety I knew would be coming, especially in regards to notifying my family about the subject matter.

The giddiness and the anxiety have both settled, now that the news is out. I’ve had the conversations with my family. Everything is okay in ways I did not expect. This publication is different because of the prestige of The Cincinnati Review and because it’s a contest. I’m hopeful it will assist me greatly in my continued agent querying efforts. It is a hard thing to write, and a harder different beast to submit. Frustration, anxiety, envy, passion, it’s all part of this messy game.

I keep asking myself how to stay in the lane of glorious validation and joy. I’m trying not to guilt myself when my mind obsesses over who didn’t acknowledge my win, especially fellow writers who I’ve cheered along their journeys. How stupid that we notice but of course we do. It’s maddening but, I think, part of the process. And the real reason people don’t like or comment or share is probably (maybe?) removed from me. I don’t have an answer for how to stay in my lane of joyous validation. But being chosen in this way has given me a vat of writerly energy. I feel confident and aglow even in this murky territory of novel writing (fiction?!?!? eeek!)

My last Substack also included a passage from a flash CNF piece, which published today with Culterate in their first issue. Posting here in its entirety.

I’m proud of myself for how I’ve navigated the tremendous grief from this summer. Death grief and friend breakup grief. All of these griefs living beside me every single day. I haven’t been perfect but you know what? I’m allowed to have emotional reactions to the things people have done to me. I don’t have to protect people who have made me feel unwanted, unworthy, and just plain bad. I am grateful for those alone days in the heat. I am grateful to realize who cares about me in a real, authentic way and grateful to know who doesn’t. Even tucked into my cocoon I kept my head high.

Thank you all for reading. I truly, truly appreciate your audience.