Book Report, Part I

The book I'm writing

Before we begin…

What kind of deadline are you more apt to make, the self-imposed kind or the ones others set for you to meet? Do you panic or embrace a deadline?

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I woke up in a cold-induced fog this morning and realized that the year is almost over. Technically, if I stick to the usual Spark publication schedule, this would be the last issue of the year. My snot-filled head is spinning. How did this happen?

If I retrace my steps I can find my way back to November 17, the day I emailed copies of my novel-in-progress (working title: The Replacements) to the first round of beta readers and a developmental editor. I was euphoric. I’d made a commitment to myself to make this deadline. This deadline mattered only to me; no one asked for this book. There have been times in my life when that would have been enough for me to shove it to the bottom of my pile of priorities.

Photo by Aedrian Salazar on Unsplash

My relationship with deadlines has been a complicated one over the years. My first job after college was on a small daily newspaper where making the 9 A.M. deadline was nonnegotiable. If I failed, it would trigger a chain reaction resulting in a late paper, the wrath of my co-workers, and, worst of all, the disappointment of the managing editor who’d hired me.

I failed often. In fact, the closer the big hand on the clock on the wall directly above my keyboard would get to the twelve, the more panicked I’d become. As nine o’clock hit, my fingers would freeze. I actually had to let the first minute tick past before I could continue. I don’t know how to explain that. Looking back, it seems as though failing lifted the pressure. If I’d already failed, I could not fail more. This, of course, was not true. The later I was, the more I impacted everyone else and the goal we all shared.

Instead of firing me, my managing editor shocked everyone – mostly me – by making me the editor of my section. Instead of receiving assignments from another editor who’d always stood between me and the production staff in the back (this was in the early 80s when we still had manual typewriters and page layout), I was the one on the front lines with full responsibility for every word that went into those pages. If I failed, I would not be letting someone else down. I’d be letting myself down.

It was genius. I turned into a person who had features ready in the pipeline, news stories half written when I arrived at work, and photos to spare. I loved my job. I loved my life. Then, after two years, I left my job and moved to another state.

I later found that most bosses and clients were not as imaginative as my managing edtior. They were driven by their own needs and fears and ambitions, few of which I shared. They did, however, provide me with an income and jobs that looked good to the outside world and rationale for letting their deadlines and desires structure my days. This structure was a huge relief because between leaving my daily newspaper job at twenty-three and taking my first job as a newly-fledged MBA at thirty, I floundered between jobs, stretches of unemployment, and opportunities to work for myself by freelancing. Depression and anxiety dominated those years. Everyone around me expected more of me and I expected even more of myself until I, once again, froze.

Over nearly four decades since that second “freeze,” I have been grappling with the fear of taking full responsibility for my work. At first, I kept the stakes low. As long as I was working in the pharmaceutical industry, first for a drug company, then later as a consultant, I made deadlines, got reports done, made enough people happy to stay employed and make a decent living. I was a solid performer, if not a spectacular one. But I was mostly operating on other people’s priorities and deadlines. Even after relocating to California and resuming a journey towards writing, my work days were largely shaped by those who were paying customers and colored by an unhealthy and growing resentment.

Then, in 2014, my husband offered me both a gift and a challenge. He ran the numbers and showed me I could stop taking on new projects earlier than we’d planned. If I chose, I could write full time and finish my novel. Even as I said a loud and grateful yes, fear rose up in me. For the first time since I was in my early twenties, there was no one but me and the work. If I failed, I would not be letting someone else down. I’d be letting myself down.

In the years since then I have redefined what it means to let myself down when it comes to my work. In the beginning, I believed that I needed to be published within a certain period of time, and that eventually I’d have to bring enough money to make up for at least part of the income we lost by stopping the consulting work early. By that measure, I am a complete failure as I sit here today, typing these words. I’ve published one novel that took me ten years to write. By the time my second one is finished (hopefully the first half of next year), I will have worked on it for nearly eight years. In the meantime, I have published one essay outside of this newsletter and I have written a number of others that were either rejected outright or fell into the abyss of no-reply-means-we’re-not-interested, one as recently as October.

I am a slow writer with a big family and relationships that are important to me. These past eight years – just like the ten years before them – were filled with major life events, losses, and family health issues. I have been much more tired much more often and much less resilient in the face of interruptions. Reluctantly, I pulled back from regular contact with my writing community here in San Diego. As you all know, I went from weekly to every other week here at Spark. I have also pulled back from volunteering except for things that I can do from my house, around my work schedule.

I have also discovered – or finally acknowledged – the part of me that is selfish and single-minded. She is the one who made sure I showed up at least three hours at least five days a week to work on this novel for most of the past two years. She made me journal or rewrite for as little as an hour at a time when I was traveling or gathering with family. She is the one who did a little fist pump when I sent out the draft on November 17. She is the one who made me look for new ways to get input on my work from trusted voices because I did not have the band-width to be a fair reader for others in a writers group, at least not right now. She may even be the one who dictated my reading choices in 2025.

I am not immune to the sting of rejection or the vulnerability that comes with putting a piece of work out into the world and hoping it survives somehow. I am not immune to the feeling of loneliness that hanging around with friends, family, and fellow writers helps to dispel even as it takes from the time I need to write. Finally, I am not immune to the doubts that crowd around my desk and parade across my brain whenever I pick my head up from the day’s writing. But all of these lose their power over me when I am actually writing, doing the work that has meaning for me. They were entirely vanquished the morning of November 17 when I made my self-imposed deadline.

The moment I hit send on the last email to the last reader, I stood up from my computer and, yes, skipped a little to my office door.

I went to a play, then a party. I took walks and had lunch with friends. I made Thanksgiving dinner. Then, because the universe works this way, I caught a cold I would not wish on anyone. I have not been able to write another word on any of the other projects I thought I’d be able to tackle during the few weeks the book is being read by others.

The euphoria has waned. My life was organized around this book. It has been my constant companion. I am unexpectedly adrift. The doubts and vulnerability have returned and started to nibble at my confidence at a time when I’m under the weather, the days are shorter and darker, and the time available to do anything worth doing seems to be slipping through my fingers. My attention span is tiny and slippery. I long for quiet and, yet, don’t seem to know how to create it for myself right now.

I have enough experience to know that this is not a permanent condition and before sending the draft out I did make a plan for how to proceed when I receive the comments from the editor and my beta readers. Basically this plan is to spend a week reading and taking in all the comments. The second Monday of January is when I will start again. Three hours a day, five days a week, just me and the novel. I want to send it to my agent no later than spring. I’ve stopped short of setting a specific deadline but that will come. And I have a good chance of making it.

Deja vu all over again

I’ve been here before. In the following video from the 2016 Southern California Writers Conference, I talked a bit about that exhilarating and frightening moment when my husband told me to stop taking paying gigs and plunge myself into the novel that was later published, Casualties. The still photo below captures the terror, don’t you think?

Next week: Book Report, Part II

Next week will be the final issue of Spark for the year. We’ll tackle the annual subject of what we read and what it says about us. We will then take a holiday break and we’ll be back in your inbox on January 10.

Bookmarks: what is the deal with them?

I want to dedicate a future issue to bookmarks. Do you use them? What do they look like (photos welcome!) How do you decide which one to use? Are bookmarks for show or do they have real utility? What have you always wondered about bookmarks? Reply in the comments or send me your thoughts/pics by replying to this email.

Discover, rediscover books and authors all in one place

You may have noticed a slew of new posts on the website and found them familiar. You’re right. In an effort to get organized, I copied all author interviews so they appear in one place, Spark Interviews. I’ve done the same thing with our new feature, The Right Book at the Right Time. I’ll be adding to these as new interviews come in. Take a look and see if there are any you’ve missed. It’s a great and easy way to discover writers or books that are new to you.

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December takes

Here are two takes on this season from people who seem to get that mix of dread and cheer just right:

• Caroline Cala Donofrio’s 13 Things That Made Me Smile (who doesn’t need a ravioli notebook?)

• These opening paragraphs of Tom Cox’s December, from his newsletter which made me feel seen. And just a little better.

“The knowledge that these bars of darkness, closing in on the day from each side, will not continue their progress forever is there within me, owing to what I have learned over 50 previous Decembers, but that doesn’t mean that my body does not respond to this time of year with primal terror, an instinctive need that makes me want to run and tidy myself away in a drawer…The way I way have come to look at it is this: everything that scares you is worse in the middle of the night. December is the macrocosm of that. Spring is my morning. “ - Tom Cox

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Ciao for now!

Gratefully yours,

Betsy

P.S. And now, your moment of Zen…the carrot with attitude

I was making a meatloaf with mushrooms, celery, onions, spinach, and, yes, carrots. But when I came to this one, I paused. There’s just something about her that seems too sophisticated even for my meatloaf.

Calling for Your Contribution to “Moment of Zen”:

What is YOUR moment of Zen? Send me your photos, a video, a drawing, a song, a poem, or anything with a visual that moved you, thrilled you, calmed you. Or just cracked you up. This feature is wide open for your own personal interpretation.

Come on, go through your photos, your memories or just keep your eyes and ears to the ground and then share. Send your photos/links, etc. to me by replying to this email or simply by sending to: elizabethmarro@substack.com. The main guidelines are probably already obvious: don’t hurt anyone -- don’t send anything that violates the privacy of someone you love or even someone you hate, don’t send anything divisive, or aimed at disparaging others. Our Zen moments are to help us connect, to bond, to learn, to wonder, to share -- to escape the world for a little bit and return refreshed.

I can’t wait to see what you send!

And remember, if you like what you see or it resonates with you, please share Spark with a friend and take a minute to click the heart ❤️ below - it helps more folks to find us!