The unexpected grief of getting what you want
When I submitted my book, I got the biggest whiplash of sadness I’ve ever experienced. Don’t get me wrong, I’m immensely happy to have written my book. Writing Instructions for Traveling West ranks among the best things I’ve ever done. Next to teaching, it feels like the work that’s integral to my existence. It doesn’t just feel good, it feels necessary.
But the sadness after submitting it to my publisher surprised me. Like a lot of us, I told myself if I could just get _______ ( insert a book deal, dream job, perfect body), I’d be happy. But even after writing my book, I discovered I still hurt in all the same places. My heart still had its squeaky hinge.
Listen, nothing makes you more unpopular at parties than complaining about your success. But a weird truth about success is that it arrives accompanied by loss. Any major accomplishment is a tiny death. Suddenly, you’re mourning all the relationships that won’t carry over. You’re shedding skin. You’re trying not to crack under the unbearable pressure of keeping what you’ve won. Anxiety is a glowworm that crawls into the belly and burns without a flame.
Why am I telling you this? It’s definitely not to discourage you from writing your book. In fact, I deeply hope you write your book and I wish you wild success. But, just know that the sense of joy comes really truly is in the doing, not the achieving. It sounds obvious but it’s honest. Truthfully, I’ve never felt more alive than when I was actually pushing that manuscript out into the world—-in the final hour running on 40 minutes of sleep, imposter syndrome, and enough angst to launch a spaceship.
Put another way, there is no greater grief than NOT writing or creating. But no matter what happens next, it won’t make you any happier or more fulfilled than the initial jolt of joy you feel when you first pick up your pen.
Poem on,
Joy
P.S.
What’s next for me? I’ve taken the summer off of writing poetry. I’m writing more on Substack and brainstorming a novel and shunning TikTok because it gives me the spectacular sads. I’m buying flowers for the coffee table and fancy chocolate in rose gold foil and lifting heavy weights so I’m tired enough to sleep. I’m volunteering at a local writing center because that’s the work that feels urgent and I’m pouring myself into my lovely writing community Sustenance (feel free to join us). Mostly, I’m listening to headphones in the park and learning to breathe. If you see me, say hi.
P.S.S. Have you ever gotten what you wanted and ached? Tell me in the comments. I’d love to know. <3
I know this and still I desperately want my memoir to be published. So much of my worth has gotten wrapped up in whether or not I can get an agent. It's been two years of querying and still nothing. It feels like getting and agent would convince me that I'm worthy of doing this at all. I know that's not ideal thinking, but it's where I'm at after so much silence, so much rejection. I just need someone to believe in the book that I poured my entire being into. I'm trying not to give up on the book, to ride the joy of the creation itself and stop worrying about what will come of it, but it's so hard for my heart and my ego. Thanks Joy for sharing these parts of yourself with us.
I spent the night before I submitted my second book in urgent care at the hospital, with a mysterious pain in my side. I didn't know what it was, the doctors didn't know either.
The only time I've had that feeling was after a friend of mine passed away.
The medical powers that be ran all the tests and eventually decided it was a pulled muscle. (From what? I had done nothing but book revisions for weeks).
But I know what it was—at least I know now.
It was grief. It actually hurt to let it go.
Thanks for sharing. It's all so true.