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My first major success as a writer came when one of my essays was published in the Los Angeles Times Magazine. It was a big coup for me. Earlier that year, I had cashed out my 401K and made the giant leap of faith from corporate drone to freelance writer and this was my first official validation of the wisdom of that decision. Someone who had no emotional stake in me-someone other than my husband or mother-was saying, "You're a writer and here's a check to prove it."
When I first got the news I was so excited that I terrified my cat and almost pulled a muscle leaping around. I told everyone I met on the street and sent an e-mail announcement to all the people I'd ever come into contact with. I worked like crazy to get some semblance of a website up before the big day, just in case someone read my piece and wanted to offer me a six-figure book deal. I planned a small champagne brunch for those people who had been through the trenches with me and I even autographed copies of the magazine for those few loyal friends who asked.
But after the check was cashed and spent, and the empty champagne bottles long gone to the recycling bin, that sweet smell of success began to stink. Before my piece was published, I was a just wannabe writer. I had three unsatisfactory screenplays, a catalog of unpublished essays, and three quarters of a novel to show for my efforts. But on publication day, everything changed. My work was sent out to two million readers and an unknown quantity of online viewers. A higher expectation had been set for the quality of my work. And it was paralyzing.
I used to be able to sit at my computer and tap out a stream of consciousness, knowing that I would go back during the editing process and shape it into a cohesive tale. Now I felt an obligation to produce brilliant work every time. In my mind I had a "public" and my public demanded a certain level of quality that I wasn't sure I could deliver. My head filled with thoughts of failure, poverty or even a return to corporate life! I could see how so many writers had slid into drink and despair after success and never produced anything worthwhile again.
A fellow writer suggested I find a mentor or seek help from a professional to break through the block I had created. I nodded my head emphatically, but instead, my mother provided the jolt I needed.
"Well," she said, "you'd better just get busy and write some more."
There's nothing like a bit of maternal pragmatism to propel a brooding writer into action-and bring her back down to earth with a resounding thump.
The truth is, it took hard work and discipline to get my first piece published. It took a crummy first draft, input from trusted peers and shrewd, sometimes merciless editing to create something worth publishing. It also took tenacity and a thick skin to keep submitting when the rejections came in. And finally, it took luck and timing for it to drop on the desk of the editor at just the right time to pique his interest.
So I had two options. I could stay paralyzed and some day be able to tell people that I once had an article published in the Los Angeles Times, or I could go back to my desk, plant my behind firmly in my chair, and just do what I love, which is write.
It's true that my first published piece raised my personal bar a little higher, and skyrocketed the self-doubting along with it. In some ways, everything I've published since has had the same effect, because growth is painful. By working hard, I am improving and I should expect more of myself. The trick is to celebrate the success and then get right back to work.
