What Nobody Tells First Time Authors
Reflections on one year of MOMFLUENCED
Last year on April 23—a date burned into my memory not unlike my kids’ birthdays despite the fact that I don’t really proscribe to the “birthing a book” metaphor—my first book, Momfluenced, was released into the world.
Momfluenced was the long desired destination I had fantasized about for years along my circuitous path of becoming a writer.
I’ve written about it before, but I wasn’t one of those little kids who, like, always knew she wanted to write. I wrote, sure. Lots of beautifully purple stories about dreamy maidens and star-crossed love (with illustrations to match OBVIOUSLY). And I had multiple journals in which I wrote agonizing entries about friend jealousy, boy drama, my sister stealing my stuff, and my family not understanding me.
One such tortured example:
“I think I’m into David. I know, I’m pathetic. David will be over soon, I’m sure. He writes me many letters. Lately he has been telling me how he’s in love with Megan. He really, really likes her. Great. Why is it that whenever I like a guy, that guy always ends up being desperately in love with Megan. I just can’t stand it.”
YOU COULD NOT PAY ME ANY AMOUNT OF MONEY TO RELIVE ADOLESCENCE.
But I never thought of myself as a writer so much as a reader. Books were my escape from my mixed up and exhausting interiority. They were my keys to other worlds. They were my friends.
As a grad student in literature, I had to take a composition course, and I ended up taking one that was geared toward pedagogy. Throughout the semester, we wrote several creative pieces we might later use as assignments. I wrote a poem about acne. A stream-of-consciousness memory essay about the texture of my childhood home’s wall-to-wall carpet. I wrote about the smell of my grandfather’s car - a combination of pungent cologne, aftershave, whiskey, and Buick.
I really enjoyed this class, and frequently felt pride in my ability to string words together, but still, didn’t think of myself as a writer. Maybe I thought of myself as happily imbued with a detailed memory, or maybe I clocked the fact that writing about stuff that made me feel something ugly or strange or brave turned on some sort of light inside of me. But none of these sensations or exercises cumulated in me thinking of myself as a writer.
Reflecting upon my past dabbles with putting pen to paper, I’m a little surprised I never went through a “wanting to be a writer” phase since all the ingredients were clearly there. I was frequently more comfortable ensconced in the world of a book than performing myself IRL. I was insecure, desperate to express myself in order to be seen. I’m a Scorpio!
It wasn’t until I became a mother and was forced to confront my life’s choices (namely, to pursue motherhood as a panacea for feeling professionally lost) that the idea of writing as a THING took hold.
Things I Did To Become A Writer
Applied for a job at an interior design blog despite having no experience whatsoever in blogging or interior design.
Started a blog in order to gain experience in blogging where I wrote stuff like this.
Begged lots of editors to let me write for them without having any clue how to professionally beg.
Sent pitches like these with a photo from my wedding?????? Apparently thinking that professional writers sent headshots along with pitches????? REMEMBERING I USED TO DO THIS IN REAL TIME IS A JOURNEY.
Got my first piece published after failing approximately 177 times - this piece was CLEARLY about puberty and obviously it required an embarrassing personal photo to accompany it.
Applied to a writer’s conference with a 20 page writing sample about postpartum depression and got in. Writing this sample was the first time I dared to take my words seriously.
Read a flash piece about childbirth aloud in front of the 100 or so people who attended this writing conferences.
Applied for an editor position at the New York Times despite having no editorial experience or training.
Learned how to write a proper pitch (shout-out to
, who was one of my first teachers!)Made one of my very best friends at another writing conference who has read more of my shitty first drafts than anyone else in my life.
Got a piece accepted by my first glossy women’s outlet and felt like I had arrived.
Made the decision to stop attending certain writing conferences mostly because I started to feel like I no longer needed the fairly arbitrary validation many writing conferences provide.
Took a 9-month class in order to develop a nonfiction manuscript.
Was told to include more male characters in my nonfiction manuscript.
Was told to include more “happy moments of motherhood” in my nonfiction manuscript.
Conducted my first phone interviews - one of which was with
for this piece and I had to really really coach myself not to make an ass of myself re: fangirling.Taught myself how to interview people.
Pitched myself to agents at an event that was sorta like speed dating for agents and writers who needed agents.
Understood that in person charisma and a catchy pitch “I want a freshly exfoliated face but I want to smash the patriarchy” might lead to piquing agents’ interest but the interest would die if the actual book was not sellable.
Started a spreadsheet of agent rejections (50 or so give or take). It was color coded!
Pitched an agent as she was trying to help herself to mushroom quiches in A BUFFET LINE (yes, still dying about this one).
Misunderstood an aspect of journalistic etiquette and spent days in a shame spiral.
Got referred by another writer friend to write something for Harper’s Bazaar - the first time I’d ever been commissioned.
Wrote my first celeb profile and felt the thrill of TRAVELING FOR WORK.
Learned how to ask for more money (I still need handholding with this one).
Learned how to write a book proposal.
Landed an agent and felt like all of my wildest dreams had come true.
Sent a book out on submission only to watch it get roundly rejected.
Girded my loins to write another book proposal which also got roundly rejected.
With help from a brilliant developmental editor, identified a juicy hook in the last rejected proposal and yeah, wrote ANOTHER BOOK PROPOSAL. This is three book proposals in case you’re not keeping track. I CERTAINLY WAS.
Got an offer!
Didn’t get any other offers and didn’t think to worry about the money aspect of my only offer, so desperate was I to think of myself as a REAL WRITER.
Wrote a fucking book.
Tried and failed not to think about how much time went into writing the book versus how much I was paid to write the book.
Begged everyone I knew who had anything at all to do with publishing, influencing, or celebrities, to accept a galley.
Pitched myself to approximately 7,142 people in order to publicize the book.
Begged thousands of strangers to preorder the book. Including readers of this newsletter!
Agonized over book tour outfits and sent approximately 612 photos like this to my sister/cousin thread.
Because the only way I’d make money on the book was through royalties (sales) given the small size of my advance, I began to strategize about how I might impact sales.
Strategized about how to grow my social media following so more people would buy the book.
Strategized about cute merch that would look splashy on social media so more people would buy the book.
Strategized about how to get on big podcasts so more people would buy the book.
Strategized about blurbs so more people would buy the book.
Strategized about writing about my book on this newsletter so more people would buy the book.
Experienced the high of pub day! It was a real high! It was great!
Experienced the numbness of pub week. It was real numb! It was weird!
Experienced the comedown and exhaustion of intense effort required by book promotion.
Wondered if any of it had been worth it.
Wondered if I’d ever write another book.
Wondered if anyone cared.
Stopped thinking my book was at all something I could control the reception of and slowly stopped thinking about my book altogether.
Enjoyed the freedom that is LIFE AFTER BOOK.
This week, Momfluenced the paperback was released. Tuesday came and went but I forgot to post about it because I was transcribing a newsletter interview, drafting a 5 Pretty/Ugly Things post, walking my dog, attending my kid’s band concert, and letting my 4YO show me which flowers had bloomed overnight.
I’m proud of the years of work that went into Momfluenced, and I’m enormously grateful for the many, many people who helped me usher it into existence. It’s a book that combines difficult personal excavations alongside myriad maternal perspectives and hopefully illuminating cultural and historical contextual analysis. My deepest desire is that reading it helps you make sense of the age of Ideal Motherhood™ and allows you to transcend anyone else’s ideals. It’s been an absolute joy to talk to people for whom the book has cracked something open, and a privilege to add my voice to the canon of books seeking to better understand how class, race, politics, social media, and consumerism make navigating the role of Mother so sticky, so confounding, and sometimes, so liberating.
Happy one year to Momfluenced, and happy paperback week!
Congrats on getting a paperback!! That's not a guarantee in this market so it's a huge deal and you should be really proud. I loved getting to do an event with you last year (last minute and all!) and it's so cool to see the career you've built.
Thank you for making this fumbling author-to-be feel better about all the missteps and rejections along the way