The day the election results were called, as I was reeling and trying to figure out how I will move through the next four years (or longer), I wondered for the first time in a long time whether I would keep writing. I am not usually someone who doubts the usefulness of art in times of crisis—usually, the worse things get, the more tightly I cling to any source of beauty and meaning. But in the face of impending fascism and all of the worst-case scenarios flooding my mind, I will admit I had the thought, "Who gives a fuck about your little stories."
But as the initial shock has begun to wear off and the murky, numb despondency has settled back into resolve, I've circled back to believing that art is even more important in times like this, not less. Art isn't enough on its own: I am also thinking a lot about how I will be of practical, immediate use to my community in the coming years, how I will show up for people who will be more directly impacted by the coming administration than I will as a white, cis person living in a blue state. Giving money and time and action. This is going to be essential.
But so is art.
And I'm not just talking about the finished work and the relief or distraction or hope that readers may find in it (though that too, of course). I'm talking about the actual work itself. The making of art as a respite and a source of strength and meaning and joy for us, the artists. We will all need to carve out as much space as we can for ourselves to feel connected to each other and to our own humanity, to feel a sense of purpose and enjoyment, if we’re going to make it through whatever is coming without giving in to despair and apathy. For me, that means writing.
Incidentally, I drafted the rest of this newsletter, about enjoying the process of writing, last week when I still hoped that Harris would win the election. And as I sat down to finish it this morning, I went through a mini version of the same cycle of doubt-to-determination: first thinking that it felt trivial to send out a newsletter about writing as we all grieve and brace for what’s coming, then remembering that we’re going to have to find ways forward, and art is definitely going to be one of them.
I explained in my first post introducing this new series that the seed of my novel project came from First Love, but what I didn’t mention was the fact that I first planted that seed (ie, started making notes for the project) in October of 2022—just over two years ago.
As I’m learning how to write a novel, I’m also learning how to take my time—how to really, genuinely, savor the process and resist the urge to race toward the external validation of publication. This isn’t something I’m learning about fiction, specifically, but it’s maybe the most important thing I’m learning about how I want to be a writer. And it underpins all of the exploring and experimenting that the rest of this series will be about, so it felt like a good place to start.
My first book, Negative Space, took twelve years to write. For almost all of that time, I felt terrible anxiety about how long it was taking. I wanted to have written a book so badly, it made it hard to enjoy writing a book. The worst part: all of that anxiety and hurrying didn’t actually make it go any faster, it just made it a lot more stressful.
When I finally reached the sought-after finish line, the experience of publication drove home the fact that writing really is the fun part. This is easy to forget when we see our peers getting rave reviews and winning awards and hosting fancy launch parties—but that stuff is all confetti falling to the floor: sparkly and exhilarating for a brief moment, and then it’s over. The work is what will sustain you in the long run. (People told me this while I was working so doggedly to finish my first book, but of course I didn’t believe them.)
I tried to carry this lesson with me into the writing of First Love, to savor the process, but because I sold it on proposal, I had a deadline—I had to hurry. So this novel project is my first chance to do things differently. To that end, I set out from the start with this new book determined to take my sweet time, to luxuriate in learning and experimenting and the actual process of making something.
I am trying to let go of the idea that if I don’t follow up my last book with a new one quickly enough, the publishing world and booksellers and readers will forget I exist. This feeling that we have to stay visible in order to build momentum is pervasive, but I have decided that it’s bullshit. (Or at least that if I really will take a hit for slowing down, I don’t care.) I’m letting my art be art for now, and not thinking of it as a step on the ladder of my career. (And before anyone points out that this is a privileged position, to divorce art from commerce, that’s true. But also, publishing books is not how most authors actually make a living. Most of my income comes from teaching. So why not let art be art.)
I do of course still feel impatient sometimes—I watch that little word count tracking bar on Scrivener grow almost imperceptibly and I’m eager for the day when I’ll have a full draft to rip apart, and the day long after that when I’ll have a cover to share, and the day even longer after that when I’ll hopefully get to celebrate the book’s publication. But I have been trying to feel that eagerness as excitement, rather than anxiety. I’m looking forward to having a full draft; that doesn’t mean I have to hurry to get there.
Mostly, I’m having fun. I’m trying things out, not knowing if they’ll work or if I can pull them off, but following my curiosity about what shape this project might take, how these characters might behave, and how I might render them and their world. I’m learning, and getting better at something, which is the most exhilarating feeling. I’m protecting this space of play and wonder and excitement—especially now, when so much feels so bleak. I know I’m going to need it.
PS if you’re deep in the “does this work even matter anymore” spiral, I wrote something during the first Trump presidency about how personal narratives help us reaffirm our connections and empathy for each other—even if there are some people they’ll never reach. I re-read it yesterday to remind myself. Maybe you need a reminder too.
“What Is a Novel?” is an ongoing series of dispatches from a work-in-progress, a record of the trial-and-error process of teaching myself how to write a novel. Read past installments here.
I don't think art convinces evil to turn to goodness, but I very deeply believe that art helps people survive evil times. It helps them understand their history, their desires and fears, their hopes for the future, and versions of selves they can become because with art they can imagine a future--not all this all the time, but some of it sometimes, both witnessing art and creating it. Personally, I care very much about your stories, which is a very teeny something, but something nonetheless.
It’s wild I was having this conversation (to art or not to art - is everything meaningless right now?) in my head when the notification of your newsletter came through. Thank you for the encouragement and reminder 🩷