Write My Way Out

“How much money do you think a publisher would give me for a book advance?” I asked Troy.

We were lying in our bed, worrying about money together.

We had big dreams and small bank statements. Credit card companies were calling. I had drained most of my retirement accounts to cover the monthly bills, and we were seriously starting to worry that we might lose our apartment. We could always move in with Troy’s mom, but she was allergic to our cat. Things seemed pretty bleak.

“I dunno,” Troy said. “Probably not much.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “And we need some income a lot sooner than that.”

“How confident do you feel that the publisher will want your book?” Troy asked.

“Maybe 50%?” I threw out a number. “The other publisher I talked to was interested, so they probably will be.”

“That seems high.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess we have to get real jobs,” I said, feeling discouraged.

“Yeah.”

So we did. Troy got a part-time gig with a famously progressive spice chain store and I went to work for a multi-national legal corporation. The jobs were pretty bad, but at least we could pay our rent. We lived close to the bone, making our own stock and finding the cheapest cuts of meat. Our apartment was tiny, but we were used to moving around each other.

It took a little longer to finish my book proposal because of the multiple jobs I was juggling. I found people who were willing to look it over and help me polish it for submission. I emailed it to the publisher, and I hoped.

When I heard back, the news was good. It was also the kind of good news that has a lot of work attached to it. I found an agent to negotiate my contract and I did receive a small advance on the book. Not a life-changing amount (maybe month-changing), but every penny helped.

Troy landed a good job in his field. I cut back my hours to half-time (plus the class I was teaching) and went to my friend Anna’s house every morning to write. I made a plan: if I wrote four 700-word commentaries a week, I could finish a draft manuscript a month before it was due. I knew I would need at least a month to edit it into shape. I made long checklists and slowly crossed things off. My manuscript grew, 700 words at a time.

After I finished my last commentary, I went back over everything with a fine-tooth comb. I struggled to keep my computer from crashing at the size of the file. I spent tedious hours fixing my footnotes. I knew it wasn’t perfect when I sent it in, but I couldn’t even see it anymore.

Everything was on track for it to come out the following year. I went through rounds of copy edits and disagreements about the title. I tried to let go of little things and hold my ground when something was important. I learned a lot.

Then, just as I was starting to contact people to try to do a modest book tour, the world stopped. The pandemic put so many things on hold, and my book was one of them. The publisher said they hoped to release it the following year. I cried a lot.

Troy and I stocked up our apartment. I learned to make bagels and he learned to make cocktails. We ate and drank well at our heavy, second-hand table.

Slowly, things got a little better. After months of no word, my publisher set a new release date for my book. I tried to figure out what the fall might look like, and if it would be possible to have in-person events by then. I lined up some guest preaching spots and online panels.

We got a small windfall and decided to move to Greensboro—a move I had been pushing for for years. We rented a house with offices for each of us, nearly three times the size of our previous apartment. The house was built in 1925; it had loads of charm and very few closets. We got used to having more space.

My book came out just as the virus was surging again, so at the last minute we decided to move the launch party online. It was actually great: I got to see people from different parts of my life and the country, including my parents.

The book began to sell. It did well, landing on some bestseller lists. A handbook for feminist preachers was never going to make me rich, but the sales made life easier. I started hearing from people I didn’t know, who sought me out because of my book. My speaking calendar filled up. (Speaking pays so much better than writing.)

Things were going well, but I felt bad. Some fellow ministers came after me online and I retreated, taking social media apps off my phone. I watched my book stats like I watched my bank account—feeling bad if the numbers were down but indifferent or ambivalent if they went up. I stopped writing.

Troy worried about me. He encouraged me to get back into doing things I loved, like coloring and listening to music, with the hope that those things would ease me back into writing.

My legal job ended, and I and spent my days on the couch, reading a novel a day like I had as a child.

I began having pain in my hip in the fall and it was getting progressively worse. My gait was off, and I couldn’t get off the floor without a block, even though I did yoga every day. My right hand also started cramping up, making it difficult to write or use my mouse.

Troy made me go see a doctor. The doctor prescribed steroids and (more) stretches.

I felt stuck and frustrated. The things that had worked in the past were not working, and I slowly realized I couldn’t “try-harder” my way out of this.

Troy suggested I try something different. I tried to figure out what that might be. I started looking at different possibilities for work. I had found that a regular, half-time job was helpful in keeping me on an even keel, emotionally and financially. I applied in different directions.

I started feeling more energy. I did interim ministry training. A position came up that seemed like a good fit, and I applied with everything I had. I gave talks and led workshops, reaching new and different audiences. My legal job started up again.

I began to have insomnia, probably related to the steroids. I got up in the night and watched recordings of musicals. I thought about excellence.

My friend Julie had moved to Santa Fe during the pandemic, and she and her spouse gave me an open invitation to stay for free and write. My Christmas present from Troy was the plane ticket, for whenever I wanted. I made plans to travel in April.

Then, the night before my trip, a book appeared fully formed in my head. I ran to my office and outlined it in full. In the morning, I wrote the first chapter. Then I got on a plane to Santa Fe.

The travel was brutal, but I made it. And then I sat down to write. The words poured out of me, thousands of them at the time. I wrote about my childhood in Alaska, about growing up in the Evangelical church and leaving it, about the sexual menace that always hovered at the edges.

This felt like the book I had been waiting for forty years to write.