In a few days my twins will turn 10, which is both utterly ordinary and so remarkable that I feel the need to stop everything and acknowledge it.
Ten years ago, I was 36 and had only recently gotten serious about my ambition to publish a novel. I’d bought a new laptop. I’d joined a writers’ group. I’d started waking up two hours early to work on my manuscript before heading to my gallery job. I signed up for a pitch conference and began frantically researching agents and editors, the publishing industry itself.
Everything felt urgent. Like time was running out. Like if I didn’t get my 90,000 words and find an agent before the babies were born, it would never happen. If I didn’t make it work in next 9 months, my dream would shrivel up and die.
My doctors said I’d make it to full term, but I started my maternity leave more than a month early. I thought I was giving myself plenty of time.
Of course, the twins didn’t care about my plans. They arrived in the middle of the second night of my leave, tiny and premature, one of them too ill to leave the NICU for 28 days.
Time stopped.
I didn’t write, read, or even think. I just was. I just did.
I missed the pitch conference. I quit my writers’ group. For months, I submitted only to new motherhood. I took care of my babies, learning what they needed—milk and medicines and sleep and snuggles, long walks in the awkward double stroller down the Manhattan sidewalks in changing weather.
I did this while in mourning.
My book, my ambition—they were dead.
Or so I thought.
Six months later, in October 2014, I got an email from one of the coordinators of the New York Writers’ Workshop, the organization who’d hosted the pitch conference I’d missed the weekend after the twins were born. The coordinator asked me where I’d been, since I’d registered and paid but hadn’t shown up. I sent her a short email back, explaining what had happened, and apologizing for being a no-show.
I didn’t expect anything from her, other than maybe a little sympathy—I was, after all, feeling pretty sorry for myself. But sympathy wasn’t this lady’s bag. She told me they’d use my payment for the next conference, taking place later that fall. Could I make it? Would my original pitch still work?
I think I laughed, reading that email. It seemed so strange. Unhinged, even. But then, slowly, I reconsidered. Was it possible? Was I allowed to keep going? Was it selfish of me to care about publishing a novel when I had these little creatures to take care of? When my son was still so sick?
Immediately, my husband said I should do it. He practically pushed me out the door.
It was at that pitch conference that I met the woman who would become my first agent—and if you’ve been reading my newsletter up to this point, you know that mine isn’t one of those unicorn stories. The past ten years have not been easy or smooth or fast for me. I have had to claw for every opportunity and every word, while also being patient with myself, my family, and with this industry.
Some days have been easier than others. Some years have been easier than others. At times, it has felt like sprinting on a treadmill—out of breath, exhausted, going nowhere.
But that’s the thing about milestones. They show you just how far you’ve actually come.
I started my book on March 9, 2014 and have just finished it, finished it. There were some false finishes, but now I'm truly ready to start querying and your story has filled me with encouragement. Thank you.
I'm about to turn 36 and I only recently got serious about my ambition to publish a novel... This makes me excited to see what I'm able to accomplish in the next 10 years. I hope I'll be as resilient as you. I'll aim to be, at least :) Thank you for sharing <3