My dad died last year at age 94, his death a blessing for him and, while immensely sad, a relief for me. My grief felt over too soon, but I realized it was because I’d been grieving him for years. I looked back thinking about those so-called stages of grief we learned about in Psych 101: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. These five were originally proposed by Dr. Elizabeth Kübler-Ross in her 1969 book On Death and Dying, and while they were derived unscientifically and are clearly massively oversimplified, I have found truth in them. As my father was declining, I’d first denied his trajectory by posing unrealistic plans that required him to have a future (e.g., turning my husband’s workshop into a little apartment for dad, never mind all the nursing care he required). I experienced deep anger at people who didn’t see worth in healing his various ailments, and I begged any higher power who was listening to keep him whole until I could find solutions to unsolvable problems. Eventually, I sat in darkness knowing there was nothing I could do to adjust his heading. I slid in and out of each of these feelings, in various orders, numerous times as he lay dying. By the end, acceptance was all that was left.
I’m grieving again, it seems, lurching between some of the same feelings as before. But this time, I’m grieving not a person but a book. A book! My book. A book that I expected to make a big literary splash but that so far hasn’t. A book that I am exceedingly proud of, and that I truly think deserves attention. A book that has languished unexpectedly, that has missed its most important window for best-sellerdom. I’ve been carrying the book with me, cover facing out in hopes someone stops to ask me about it, as I’ve limped along searching for a new way forward. I didn’t realize what I was feeling was grief until I remembered Kübler-Ross and her (albeit problematic) theory.
A writer puts her heart and soul into her work, and sometimes out comes a living, breathing thing that wants to be known. Hitting your stride as a writer is never a given, and it’s incredibly energizing when it happens, and even more so if you land where you intended. You feel something akin to love for what you’ve made. But once it’s finished, there is a system in place that doesn’t care about that love. What happens to your beloved depends on a whole host of factors outside of your control.
I once heard a woman speak about having a miscarriage: Part of the pain, she said, is over the lost potential, the future person—and everything he or she would have brought to the world, including love—simply not coming to fruition. No, I’m not grieving a human life, and I would never suggest this is as devastating an experience as that. But in kind they are similar, if not in degree. I’m finding the depression over lost potential to be crushing. I had no idea a book could bring me to my knees, but here we are.
Especially after having previous hits, a writer who misses grapples with so much lost potential, for public appreciation and accolades; for financial gain and the buzz and whirlwind activity that surrounds a literary success; and for that boost in confidence in one’s own career choice that comes with a triumph. In grief, this writer has entered a bubble of quiet that distorts her own view of her abilities and feels very lonely indeed. With each passing day, as prospects dim further, I know acceptance must be creeping closer. But it’s hard to let go of the disbelief, the anger/blame, and the sadness, as they are cousins, oddly, of hope.
The publishing landscape is deeply cratered and spews lava without warning: Navigating it can be perilous. Especially now, with about 10,000 books published each day, or nearly 4 million a year, by some counts. Competition for exposure is unprecedented. Things happen so fast, or not at all. In my case, giant PR missteps set me back at the worst possible time, while my own outreach machine is Rube-Goldberg — pieced together, irritatingly squeaky, and mostly ineffective. I’m waving my arms around like one of those inflatable tube men outside a car dealership, but most people, understandably, can offer only a kind word or two. They have their own fights to fight, their own losses to grieve. My problem is my own.
Grief’s neat stages are a myth, but elements of them are now my day to day. Shock and hurt that the initial momentum stalled; denial that the window is closing; anger at people who didn’t do what they should have done to ensure a good outcome. I have bargained with and begged for exposure from people who have access to what I need but owe me nothing. I have sunk into sadness and hopelessness as I see my “new release” become yesterday’s news.
I’ll admit I’m relieved to glimpse acceptance at the periphery, trying to make eye contact. Your book may end up being just be another book, it says. A good book, well-liked and well-received, but not viral, not award-winning, not on every “must read” list. It will have to be okay to have a book like the vast majority of books—undersold, underappreciated, a long way from another printing. A few people will rave about it—that will feel good!—but it will be unfamiliar to most. One of millions and millions of books that began as a nugget of a great idea and that a writer then poured their soul into to bring to life and that’s now, well, one of millions and millions.
Grieving a book. How silly it seems in the scheme of things, in a world where we have things to grieve of immense importance! Lives being lost, people going hungry, wild systems collapsing. And yet, my heart hurts over this book, still with that new-book smell and the potential to be discovered and appreciated while sagging under the weight of today’s newer book and every one to follow. Here is my book, a thing I so admire, right here in front of me but somehow nowhere at all. And so, I’m grieving. I wouldn’t know what else to call it, would you?
I absolutely know that feeling. Beautiful essay.
Let’s make a list of multi-book authors who, as Mike says, “absolutely know that feeling.” So far, Mike, Jenny, and me.
Thank you for helping me recognize what I am feeling.
Add me to the list of authors who get it, from personal experience. When a book hits and then another book doesn’t, it can be excruciating.
It is a grand book, deserving of more readers. The hardest part is realizing you did your best and letting go. So you can work again.
Whenever I suggested that my mother Ann Ripley, who wrote and published 10 murder mystery books, write a book based on an idea we’d discuss she’d say to me, “I never write a book without a signed contract.” Over the years I came to understand why she said that. She crafted her book outlines, wrote a couple chapters and then submitted this package to her agent, who then found a publishing house and proffered a contract. Mother spent weeks promoting her books with newsletters, postcards and touring—losing my father in a New York bodega on one trip—all at her own expense. Out of these 10, only two made much of a splash as ‘bestsellers’ in her local markets (Denver and Chicago) and she never made enough to earn a living from them. But she had a blast researching and writing them. So much has changed with self-publishing now I wonder if this is still good advice. Don’t give up; all writing matters, as Jean Rhys reminds us.