Keep Writing, Just Keep Writing

During my last semester of graduate school at New York University, E. L. Doctorow was my thesis adviser. He read the first seventy-five pages of my manuscript, a coming-of-age novel titled Decoys that takes place over one summer in 1978 on a fictional island in Lake Superior. After he finished reading my pages, we met in his second-floor office that overlooked University Place and discussed my novel-in-progress. It was the early afternoon, late fall of 1996. A jigsaw pattern of sunlight fell on the gray-brown carpet.

“Keep writing,” Doctorow said with a soft smile. “Just keep writing.”

I had ambitions to complete my first novel, find an agent, get a book deal, and land a teaching job. But since I had several revisions to go on my manuscript, I continued to freelance copy-edit at various magazines—something I did before and during graduate school. Prior to NYU, I had already published articles in The New York Times and other national publications, but I wanted to review fiction, so I started reviewing books for Publishers Weekly.

While studying with Doctorow, he had emphasized the importance of becoming “a professional reader.” He meant that one’s reading life was just as critical as one’s writing life, that one must go about this in a methodical, intentional manner. I knew it was unlikely that I would begin teaching any time soon, and that book-reviewing might be the best way to begin this kind of engagement—or dialogue—with contemporary literature.

At NYU, I also had an opportunity to teach in the Goldwater program—a fellowship that involved a semester of teaching disabled or chronically ill individuals at Goldwater Hospital, which was then located on Roosevelt Island. The program was designed around weekly team teaching and then each one of us would work one-on-one with three students.

I taught with two poets—one of whom was Dave Simpson, a blind poet who passed away in 2015 of ALS. Together, we designed and taught lessons that animated the written word for our students. Dave was a talented pianist, and for one class, we led the students in writing and performing “Goldwater Blues.”

During another group exercise, my husband, an actor, visited the class with another actor and performed a scene from Hemingway’s “Hills Are Like White Elephants.” Afterwards, the students wrote scenes, which my husband and the other actor performed. It was magical to facilitate the writing exercise and witness the students’ words come alive on our makeshift stage in the hospital’s recreational room.

For the weekly individual sessions, one of my students, Esther, never remembered who I was each time I visited her. (The opening sentences of one of her poems read: “My breasts are curvy like driftwood. / I hope I don’t float away.”) My second student, Robert, couldn’t speak; he typed out his poems on a small calculator-like typewriter and the faint words appeared on a short curl of paper. My third student, Phil, also struggled to speak most of the time: I remember transcribing his barely audible words into what became an eloquent, transcendent poem.

It was a lesson in listening for me, but also in possibility. Up to this point, I had always considered the act of writing as a solitary activity, one that was done strictly alone. While teaching at Goldwater, I began to understand the intersections of community service, teaching, and the power of expression, particularly within disenfranchised communities.

As I moved on to other teaching opportunities like the Teachers & Writer Collaborative and The Nutcracker Project with the New York City Ballet, I recognized that my passion for writing could translate into many different kinds of engagement: It could revolve around collaborative expression; it could be found in creating space and support for other voices that otherwise might be left in the margins; and success could be experienced in witnessing other individuals’ ability to write and express themselves in unexpected ways.

I landed representation with a respected literary agent through the traditional querying process. After reading the full manuscript of my first novel (the one I started at NYU), the agent had rejected the project with a detailed letter of feedback, all of which resonated with my vision for the novel. As a result, I wrote her back and asked if I took her criticism into consideration, would she be willing to read my revision? She agreed—and soon we began working together.

I worked through several drafts; one of the last revisions involved cutting a hundred pages, and still the novel wasn’t quite working, my agent suggested that I put the manuscript in the proverbial drawer and move on to my next project. Maybe it would be best to write something new, she said, and then return to the manuscript with fresh eyes later. At the time, it was a difficult decision to make, but I was certain I would return to the project. (I never did.)

In 2004, my husband, Michael, was accepted into the Michener Center for Writers at the University of Texas. It was an easy “yes,” given the three years of financial support that he would receive, but it also meant we were moving to Austin. Since we were now living in a new place (read: no friends), I said yes to almost every invitation.

At the time, it was a difficult decision to make, but I was certain I would return to the project. (I never did.)

Soon, I found myself regularly attending readings at Bookpeople, Austin’s famous independent bookstore, and meeting other writers. Before long, I was curating a monthly reading series at the store. I started to write occasional book reviews for the daily Arts Section of The New York Times. This opportunity opened doors to reviewing regularly for other newspapers, such as The San Francisco Chronicle and The Boston Globe.

Through these assignments, I participated in sustained conversations about contemporary fiction. I spent many hours on my reviews, with the intention of creating a bridge between authors and their potential readers. (Like many reviewers, I often followed John Updike’s tips for writing reviews.) With each review, I sharpened my skills as both a critic and a reader. Even though I still hadn’t published my first novel yet, I was participating in a literary dialogue that was enriching and important to me.

I resumed teaching, this time for Gemini Ink, which offered writing workshops to public school students in the greater San Antonio area. I taught mostly in middle schools, and then a workshop for mothers and daughters in a domestic violence shelter south of the city. After a year with Gemini Ink, I explored the idea of starting a nonprofit organization for young writers in Austin; there wasn’t an existing organization that offered this kind of instruction to public schools free of charge.

With other writers and educators, we established Austin Bat Cave, a nonprofit that provides free writing workshops for young writers throughout Austin, inspired by Dave Eggers’ 826 model. As a part of this process, I traveled to San Francisco and learned more about 826 firsthand—and met Eggers himself. I saw that it was possible as Eggers said “to shine the light on students’ work and amplify their voices.” He—and I—believed: “There is no more democratic way to express than through the written word.”

I was energized by Eggers and his mission. In the summer of 2007, Austin Bat Cave held its first series of workshops for young writers. I felt the same sort of passion and satisfaction from doing this kind of work as when I read a brilliant novel or labored away on my own sentences. Instead of teaching in the classroom, I served as the president of the board of Austin Bat Cave for ten years.

Admittedly, I wasn’t a natural-born board president: It was challenging to learn how to ask for money from donors and develop the best strategies for cultivating these relationships as well as how to build an effective and engaged board. At the same time, I had to be vigilant to protect my writing time as well as continuing to make a living as an editor and teacher.

It was a lot of work (and all of it as a volunteer, which meant a lot of juggling), but I was learning how to build bridges within community and how to help young writers to find the power of their voices. I learned how to become a leader and eventually became more comfortable asking for what the organization needed—whether it was money, manpower, or a favor from one of my writer friends.

By this time, I was also a member of the National Book Critics Circle, published my first short story in Guernica, and was at work on my second novel. This one was set in contemporary New York City and borrowed from my struggles with infertility and also losing a close friend to AIDS. My agent was enthusiastic about the manuscript, and after five years of hard work, it was sent out to forty-plus editors; unfortunately, the manuscript didn’t find a publisher.

Once again, it was disappointing. With each manuscript and revision, I knew I was becoming a better writer. With this second manuscript, my readers expressed enthusiasm and encouragement for the novel and its potential for success, but yet it still hadn’t found a home. Some part of me felt defeated and wondered how I might commit to yet another novel project. It took me about five years each to write the first two manuscripts: Was I willing to spend another five years on another novel that might not find readers?

I had to be vigilant to protect my writing time as well as continuing to make a living as an editor and teacher.

At this point, my agent and I discussed possible next projects. I had discovered a story about a young female zookeeper in Belfast during World War II and considered fictionalizing the material into a novel. My agent encouraged me to pursue the idea, that it sounded like it had the elements for a wonderful historical novel. Despite the earlier rejection, I started work on the first draft, and Michael and I began to plan a trip to Belfast.

This time, it was going to be an investment of resources—given the overseas trip—but Michael and I had never traveled there together. Both of our families came from Ireland, and we were both excited by the adventure. We went in the summer of 2013, and I did research around the city and interviewed survivors of the Belfast Blitz. Even though all of the rejection was difficult, the process of writing was still opening up experiences for me. As a way to cope, I often repeated to myself: Focus on the work rather than the results.

Back in Austin, I also started to teach adults—online and in person with various organizations. Eventually I decided to strike out on my own and begin a MFA-style nine-month workshop for fiction writers. One of my friends, Elizabeth McCracken, encouraged me to commit to the nine-month structure. “It will be more rewarding and enriching for you,” she said. “You’ll get to know your students better and spend more time with their writing.” The workshop—and editing and shepherding other writers’ manuscripts through the publishing process—also gave me confidence as a writer and an editor. In addition, I continued to publish stories and first-person essays in respected publications—and all of these minor triumphs helped me to keep the faith.

Unfortunately things weren’t going well with my agent. In response to my revisions to the manuscript about Belfast, she sent along anonymous reader reports, where the reader clearly did not like my writing. His editorial suggestions involved significant reimaginings of the characters, plot, and story, and his criticisms of my prose were scathing and offensive. (Several of my writer friends had read the manuscript and confirmed that many of his opinions were off.) I decided it might be best to move on.

Harry Kirchner—who I had worked with on the re-issuing of Julie Hayden’s short story collection The Lists of the Past (my essay about Julie Hayden provided the introduction to the book)—had become an editor-at-large at Counterpoint Press and agreed to read my manuscript without an agent. About three months later, Counterpoint made an offer. Then, during the fall 2019, Counterpoint sold the UK/Commonwealth rights to Hodder/Hachette. My debut novel, The Elephant of Belfast, comes out today.

My writing career certainly hasn’t gone the way that I had initially hoped. Instead, I’ve learned to develop my skills as a writer, an editor, and a teacher in order to pay the bills, but also earn enough money to make time to write and build community. (Admittedly, there were many moments where, confronted with doubt, I wanted to quit or pursue an entirely different profession, like a baker, a lawyer, or a park ranger.)

Twenty-five years ago, when I graduated from NYU, I never could have envisioned this path for myself: becoming a respected book reviewer, finding a voice and readers through my essays and other articles, starting a nonprofit for young writers, and teaching other writers (despite not having a book published). During all of these years, I’ve managed to follow Doctorow’s advice: “Keep writing.”

Writing is a very long road. Despite the many stories of lightning-fast success, most writers work tirelessly for years, even decades, before publishing their first book. Walk through the doors that open, but don’t be deterred by the doors that close. Rejection is a fundamental reality of the writing life.

If an agent’s criticism doesn’t ring true to you, move on. Stay engaged with your local community of readers and writers (a MFA is not a requirement for this). If a novel manuscript doesn’t find a publisher, take time to reflect and reset; it is a major accomplishment to complete a book-length manuscript and needs to be celebrated (whether it’s published or not).

Find a partner who is supportive of your endeavors. For past twelve years, Michael has taught film and acting at a high school in Austin, so my writing life hasn’t been bankrolled by the six-digit salary of a hedge-fund manager or a medical doctor; throughout all of this, I have been responsible for my part in our living expenses.

Instead, our scenario of support looks more like this: After I left my agent and it was unclear what was going to happen with my third manuscript, Michael said to me, “It’s okay. Just write your next novel.”

It’s the best kind of support that a writer could ask for.

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