Success and Failure Are Not What You Think

When I was in my 20s, all I wanted was to be famous, and I wasn’t. Not yet. My friend Jane said that while she wanted success, too, what she wanted more was to be in a good relationship, that she’d be happy if she had a husband, some kids, a home that made her feel good, work that she loved. I thought she was crazy. I wanted more.

Last month, my newest book came out, Days of Wonder. It was one I was really worried about. I was afraid if the sales weren’t good, I would be dropped by my publisher. I thought my life would fall apart if that happened.

My career has always jumped around. My first novel was such a success, I was flown to New York City (I was living in Pittsburgh at the time). I was feted and famous. I thought it would last forever, and of course, it didn’t, to my confusion and disbelief. I bounced around publishers. Some went out of business. At others, my editors left. And then my eighth novel, Pictures of You, was rejected on contract as not being special enough, and because my sales had not been so hot.

I fell apart. The stories I told myself had to do with being a terrible writer. Being a failure. I wailed and couldn’t be comforted until a friend got my book to Algonquin, which not only published it, but made it a New York Times bestseller its first week and got it into six printings. My sales were suddenly so huge, I thought my royalty checks must surely be a mistake because no one made that much money.

The experience taught me a lesson: Things can change. And they would.

Talking with Mary Calvi on CBS

Source: Sara Divello with permission

The pandemic slashed my sales, and I began to worry about Days of Wonder. My first two advance reviews of the book were not exactly stellar, and I knew what that meant. I was a failure. The stores wouldn’t want my novel. Readers wouldn’t want my novel. My career was over. I cried. I really wept because I saw no way out of this. And I decided the thing to do was to put my head down and do what I loved: write. To not even think about this book, but to give it up to the universe.

I think the universe listened.

Suddenly, the day before publication, I had a full-page rave review in the Los Angeles Times. I had raves from Bustle and Oprah Daily and NPR and the New York Times. CBS TV/New York made me one of Mary Calvi’s top Lit Picks, and CBS called me up to have my own segment on TV. I was drawing crowds and praise. Then, I won a grant from the Midatlantic Arts Foundation/New Jersey Foundation of the Arts for part of Days of Wonder.

Annie Lamott told me this wonderful story, of a friend of hers, who finally won an Oscar. He got on the stage, crying joyfully. He thanked everyone and then he came home and called Annie. “So?” she asked him. “You feel good about yourself now?” He answered, “For about ten minutes.”

So, I, too, have my ten minutes. I will never not be dazzled that I got to be on CBS, that I got to be on NPR, and I am insanely grateful for all the people who thought I was doing so well, that I was famous again, but, in a way, it’s like the make-up I had to spackle on to be on TV. I wash it off, this feeling of success, to the essentials. I know that a career, like a life, can have ups and downs. I know, too, that what kept me sane through all of this was my husband, my son, and my friends who were there to listen to me weep when I thought I had failed, who cheered me on when I succeeded, who remind me that they love me. When I shared my failures and tears with people who loved me, I felt soothed and supported. When I shared my success with them, part of my joy was seeing my friends’ joy.

I know that you can live two lives at the same time: that you can think of yourself as a success and as a failure, and that it can change from moment to moment. I find that oddly positive. It’s like a gift. A message that things can quickly switch. My novel has been out only three weeks. I know there is more media promotion and touring to come. But I also know what to do about the whole issue of success.

I put my head down and I work on a new novel. I call my friends to come have lunch. I go to my doctor's appointments. And I love my husband and my son even more. In the end, my friend Jane got what she wanted: the kids, the partner, the home she loves, and the success. She’s excitedly working on a wonderful new script, pouring love and care into it, seeing the process, rather than the results. That’s what we all should do, I think.