What Sally Hogshead Taught Me About Writing (Is a Novel Finally in the Works?)

I’ve been trying to walk more frequently. If I don’t go for a jog, I’ll go for a walk. I’ll actually write more about this in another post. Today, however, what I wanted to write about is something that I realized while listening to a podcast on this evening’s stroll. 

In the past, I’ve written about my jealousy when it comes to other writers. 

It’s extremely difficult for me to be happy for any of my friends or acquaintances who announce that they’ve written (or are writing a book). 

I feel this overwhelming sense of defeat whenever this happens. I was destined to write a book. I’ve been writing stories since I was ten years old. Everyone has always told me I would be an author. 

And yet…

Here I am. Thirty years old with no book to my name and a blog that only my parents read. 

I guess you could say that I feel like a failure when I see other people accomplishing literary works. 

But as I listened to the podcast episode with Sally Hogshead, I realized that it was more than that. I was feeling “less than.” When I think about all of the books out there, all of the blogs out there, a feeling of fatigue sweeps over me. 

HOW am I supposed to standout in such a crowded space? What will make my book better than all of the books that are already published and that are continuously being published??

The answer: nothing. 

What I realized while listening to Sally speak was that I was looking at this all the wrong way. 

Why did my book need to be the best? Why did I feel the need to be the best author of our generation?

The truth of the matter is that I won’t be the best writer of my generation. I probably won’t even be the next great American author. There’s a chance that no one will even read my book (if I ever publish it). 

But this shouldn’t stop me from writing it. Writing has always been a part of my life. It’s always been a part of my identity. It’s something I did independently of my parents, school, and friends. It was something all my own. 

And it is special. 

It is special because it is different. My voice is my own. It may not be Shakespeare. It’s certainly not Bukowski. And my ignorance of high society means it could never be Tolstoy or Dostoyevski. Nor will it be anything like Stephenie Meyer—though I’m never taking a vampire novel off the table completely. 

It is mine. 

And that’s good enough.