I published a book, so now what?

post-publication blues, input-overwhelm and the magic of doing nothing

A gentle reminder, before we begin, if you’ve read The House in the Hedge (or any of my books) and would like to say something nice about the experience, do consider leaving a review wherever you bought your copy. They really do make a difference. Thank you!

Photo by Jens Lelie on Unsplash

A week or so ago (was it longer? less? - time is weird) I was overcome with an acute case of CBA (Cannot Be Arsed), which is why I haven’t done a Sunday Scribble or anything else of a Substackian nature in the last while. Apologies for that, though I’m certain the world kept turning.

I’d just had enough.

Sometimes, I get these existential waves of “what in the actual f*ck is the point of this?” *waves hand at Substack, the internet, existence* and the best thing for me to do is to quietly retreat to my books and my garden and my paintbrushes.

If I don’t, I just get maudlin and philosophical and navel-gazey. My nickname wasn’t Melancholy for nothing, people.

If I think too hard about The Internet and the time I spend engaging with it, contributing to it, my brain hurts. This is especially true right after I do something big — like, I dunno, publish a book —here there’s a baked-in expectation to Engage and Promote and Share. The enormity of what I’ve done (created yet another Thing to clutter up the world and distract people from their lives and part them from their money when really, wouldn’t it be better if we all just threw our devices into a giant heap and wandered off into the garden instead?¹ ) comes crashing in like a philosophical tsunami and it can do a real number on my mentals.

Perhaps I’m overly sensitive to these things, perhaps I’m projecting my own emotional wounds, but I pick up on an air of quiet desperation that hangs like an ominous fog over spaces where creative people gather. I understand the striving, the pushing, the need to draw attention to ones work - the bills need paying, after all, not to mention the fact that our work has value and ought to be treated as such. And at the same time, I’m filled with righteous rage that this is what the arts are reduced to — just another victim of the capitalist hellscape as we all scrabble for whatever crumb gets thrown our way as the giant corporations continue to profit, enormously, from our creative efforts. My sense of justice is offended and so I spiral into fantasies of burning it all down and resolve to toil in obscurity forever. #notyourdancemonkey

See what I mean?

It’s best if I just go outside and talk to the bees while I prune the roses.

So that’s what I’ve been doing and what I intend to do for the next little while until the fugue passes.

I’ve written a lot - maybe mostly in my journal - about the craving I have for silence and solitude and while it’s definitely a preference, I’m realizing that it’s also a necessity. Recovering from a type of burnout that’s been decades (a lifetime?) in the making, has shown me that if I want to live a full, engaged, creative life, I need to limit my inputs. Like, really limit them. I need a lot of processing time and having stuff coming at me constantly, combined with a struggle to filter out what’s actually important (made worse by the speed and volume of inputs) I get overwhelmed really easily. I used to criticize myself for that, call myself all manner of unkind names for not being able to manage what other people seem to have little difficulty with and just push myself to keep up. I’m not doing that anymore because it always ends in a kind of shutdown where I can’t do anything because of the thoughts spinning madly in my head. I’m accepting that I actually need to isolate myself if I want to be creating.²

So, for now, I’m opting out; I’m learning to modify not just the rate at which I take in information³, but what I’m taking in.

And I feel whole lot calmer and clear-headed. Which is a very good thing indeed.

I’ve spent most of June not doing not much of anything and it’s been glorious. Well, when I say not much of anything, I’m referring to writerly things. I’ve been painting (joy!) and gardening (joy!) and reading (joy!) and watching some great television. In other words, refilling my well. I still meet with my wonderful writing group once a week and that’s perfectly enough for right now — it keeps me connected to my writing (and to my excellent writing chums) but I’m not requiring myself to work outside of that time, beyond a bit of daydreaming and dream-seeding. During those sessions I’ve done some rudimentary note-taking - brainstorming and sorting out - and this morning I hammered out about 800 words of a possible beginning for my next novel. I’m holding it all very lightly right now, though. Those 800 words might come to nothing, they’re just a possible way in - an invitation, if you will.

The urge is there to rush headlong into the next book, fueled, no doubt, by the message of the overculture of More and Faster, but I’m remembering how much more I enjoy taking my time and letting the story unfold in delicious layers, rather than haranguing it onto the page in order to get it done to a hard deadline. There’s time for deadlines later. Much later.

Softly, softly, I’m letting the story trickle slowly, directing my creative energies elsewhere, and leaving the back door open in case something wants to wander in.

Rest as revolution and all that.

I’ll let you know how it turns out.

until next time, then,

~m. xo

1. I know, I know….my books have value, my work has value. I’m offering an escape, a respite, a pause in the madness. And yet…..[cue existential ruminations on the human experience in this late-stage capitalist dumpster fire] ←- again, better that I quietly commune with the flowers for a bit.

2. And yes, there’s a delicate balance here - time to isolate and time to return to community and camaraderie. For me, though, tipping the scale more often towards isolation is what helps me stay sane and keep working.

3. Input and Learner are in my top five Strengths….so I actually thrive on, well, taking stuff in and learning — just this past week I fell down a glorious rabbithole about Victorian era England. Unfortunately, this is also how I can get stuck in infinite loops. I need to regulate the speed of inputs, so I have sufficient time to process it all before moving on to the next thing.