Eye on the Prize: Surviving "Nearly There"

How to Thrive When You’re This Close to Publication

Robin LaFevers

One of the hardest stages of the writing journey—one that will take the most dedication, commitment, and self-exploration—is the “nearly there” stage. This is the stage where your critique partners love your work, you’re getting personalized rejections from agents or editors and highly complimentary reports from your beta readers, and yet … no sale or offer has materialized.

Remember those old cartoons where the character is walking in the desert, hot sun beating down on him? The ones where he’s covered in dust and nearly perishing of thirst as he slowly drags himself to the enticing oasis that is just over the horizon—only to have it disappear just as he reaches it because it’s a frickin’ mirage?

That’s what the “nearly there” stage feels like. Especially if you’ve been stuck in it for more than a couple of years. And here’s a dirty little secret: “Nearly there” isn’t just for pre-published writers. Many published authors find themselves stuck or stalled out on the midlist for years, their careers never taking off and slowly spiraling downward. For the self-published authors, “nearly there” might mean lackluster reviews and few sales.

However we arrive at this point, the “nearly there” stage is a vital, absolutely critical part of our development as writers. In fact, many agents and editors would argue that this is exactly the stage that is missing from so many aspiring authors’ journeys and their ultimate ability to break through. So I’m going to talk about how to not only survive but thrive during this stage.

Yes, I said “thrive,” because the truth is, if you take your focus off the finish line for a while and throw yourself into the spirit of experimentation and improvement, the “nearly there” stage can be a gift. It’s a chance to strengthen your writing so that when you do get published, you have a greater chance of being published well rather than simply being published. Because yes, there is a difference. Just ask any of those languishing midlisters I mentioned.

The critically important tasks of the “nearly there” stage involve mastering those areas we have control over: the stories we tell, how we tell them, and our relationship with our writing.

TRY THIS RATHER THAN QUIT

Most of us expect to take some time to master our craft. A year or two, maybe three. But when our apprenticeship starts to draw out far beyond that, it can become dispiriting and discouraging, making it all too easy to throw in the towel.

The most widely circulated publishing success stories usually involve someone so naturally talented that she sat down and wrote a book in six months—her first book, mind you—and had it published to great fanfare. Those stories get retold so often that they feel like the expectation rather than the true outliers they are.

Far less exciting is the idea of long years of hard work spent mastering the craft one component at a time until you become proficient enough that your work simply shines.

This is not only true of the nuts and bolts of the craft of writing but also of the very stories you choose to write.

Voice, Take Two

It takes a while to recognize your creative vision, let alone to trust or believe in that vision enough to fully embrace it. It is easy to see your creations as too weird or romantic or irreverent or outlandish or creepy or mundane. But they may actually be none of those things. It may simply be that you are too close or too afraid of sharing it to see it clearly. Sometimes the stories you give yourself permission to tell aren’t the stories you are truly, ultimately meant to write. Sometimes you have to work toward those more urgent and vital stories inch by painstaking inch as you get comfortable with your own truths. This, then, is one of the most vital tasks of being “nearly there.”

It can help to look for a deep, personal connection to the themes to which you’re drawn. Are you longing for forgiveness? Is there someone you should forgive but can’t? Has someone in your life shown great self-sacrifice that inspired or benefited you in some way? If so, you know these themes well and have the ability to weave one or several into your book in a way that no one else can. Doing so will imbue your story with power.

In fact, this is the perfect time to return to my essay “Your Unique Story” and to double down on giving voice to your creative vision. Especially revisit the questions in the Finding Your Most Authentic Voice and Now Dig Deeper sections. After months or years of working on your writing, you’ve learned much about yourself—what thrills you, delights you, bores you, or sets your creativity on fire—and the answers to the questions in those sections will most likely be different now than when you first tackled them.

That is to be expected. After all, you send your characters on a narrative journey, knowing it will force them to change in fundamental ways. So, too, does the actual act and practice of writing force you to grow as you peel away your external shell and persona one layer at a time and come to know yourself better.

Advanced Craft

This “nearly there” stage is the perfect opportunity to work on some advanced elements of craft. Instead of starting a new manuscript with the intention of creating a marketable story, start with the intent of mastering certain aspects of the craft. Don’t just refocus on the obvious elements, like plotting or point of view. Branch out, and look for other aspects of craft—compelling description, evocative subtext, nuanced language, layered characters, the subtle art of pacing, microtension—that aren’t talked about quite so much. Give yourself permission, for just this one manuscript, to ignore plot or conventional structure, or to concentrate on plot and structure, if you normally avoid them. Not all of your million words need be in pursuit of one goal. I actually argue that they shouldn’t be.

Once you’ve spent long hours perfecting the craft, play with it! Experiment. Color outside the lines. Be daring. Be brave.

It can be helpful to reassess your manuscript with this new skill set, but also accept that some manuscripts aren’t salvageable. They were born flawed and will only ever be a fabulous learning opportunity. And that’s okay. Nothing is wasted in writing, especially not words you put on the page, even practice words. (Remember what Catherine McKenzie said in her essay “Do You Need an MFA?” about ten thousand hours!) Learning what doesn’t work is an important precursor to learning what does. Sometimes simply starting a new story with a new understanding of your voice and creative vision can unlock your writing in unexpected ways.

RETHINK YOUR PLACE IN THE MARKET

Once you’ve honed your skills, then what? What if you build it—and improve it—and nobody comes? What if the stories you’re driven to tell are quiet ones? Or don’t hit the current market’s sweet spot?

Sometimes the inescapable fact is that the things we love to write don’t sell. When this happens, one approach is to rework your stories to create a larger welcome mat.

This is not about selling out on your artistic vision in order to get a contract. Nor is it about watering down artistic integrity in order to reach readers. It’s about finding the largest, widest doorway into your story so that you can draw in as many readers as possible and then tell them exactly the core story you’re driven to tell.

There are a variety of things that allow a book to stand out and find a wide audience: a gripping plot, stunning reversals and sleight of hand, compelling characters, a unique and original voice, exquisite language, and a story that explores the vulnerabilities and universal truths of the human heart.

If you write quiet books or books that go against current market conventions, that doesn’t mean all is lost. It simply means that some of these other aspects of your work will act as the wider doormat for your potential readers. And the good news is that widening that doormat does not have to radically alter the story you are hungry to tell.

Also remember that just because your writing or storytelling style is understated doesn’t mean the emotions or issues you’re exploring have to be as well. It can be hugely effective to explore emotional upheaval with a quiet sucker punch as well as high drama.

ANALYZE THE LANDSCAPE

Another way to play with the oomph of your story is through the interior landscape. Can you ramp up the emotional stakes in your manuscript in some way? Explore a deeper theme? The emotional stakes of your characters aren’t only conveyed by your actual writing at the scene level but also by the brainstorming and story choices you make early in the process.

With quieter books and subject matter, the trick is to make them so utterly human that readers connect almost in spite of their inclination to dismiss a book as quiet. This is where your skill and finesse at plumbing the human spirit and heart will really have a chance to shine.

CONNECT WITH A BIGGER (MORPHING) PICTURE

Experiencing failure is an important part of the creative journey. Our characters don’t change or grow unless they are forced to do so by the events of the story, and neither will we. Rejections, bad reviews, lackluster sales, and painful critique feedback are all necessary lumps on the road to your objective. You need to be humble enough to hear what that feedback is telling you. Sometimes the feedback won’t be the obvious kind—a rejection or editorial letter—but rather a lack of progress on your journey. Keep your eyes peeled for that kind of subtle hint the universe likes to taunt us with.

Oftentimes the reason you started writing won’t be the reason you continue writing. You might feel that doing something as daring as writing stories or becoming an author is a hard thing to admit. You are shocked by your own audacity. So your creative self tells your more rational self the necessary lies to get you moving in the right direction: I can make a lot of money writing books. I will be famous. I will be respected. I can write a better book than this one I just paid ten dollars for. And on and on and on. Eventually though, that hunger to be published or make it big should morph into something else: a love affair with writing, a personal quest, a creative outlet, a way to keep sane, a simple joy, or the thrill of finally—finally—capturing the wonderfulness of an idea on the page.

This is where the rubber meets the road. Are you truly committed to this writing thing? Even if it takes more than two or three years for you to achieve your goals?

There is no wrong answer. Writing might be something that only holds a certain amount of appeal for you, an appeal that will evaporate when it does not come easily or quickly, or when that need to express yourself is fulfilled in other ways. (See Sharon Bially’s essay “On Quitting.”) Or maybe it runs so deeply in your blood that you will write, published or not, until they pry the pen from your cold, dead hands.

You must come to terms with why you write and who you are and where the two of those intersect. Some people do write for validation, and no matter how much they wish that away, it won’t change. This is fine as long as they are aware of the risks involved in that mind-set and how it shapes both their journey and their frustrations. Others write to better understand the world, to make connections, to explore the issues that haunt them, or simply because they can’t not write. It is vital to know into which category you fall.

SHIFT THE FOCUS

Sometimes all you can change is your attitude or how you approach something. You can learn to release your death grip on the outcome, let go of your desires, and simply exist in the moment and enjoy the process. Okay, I know that is much harder than it seems. Believe me, I know. So here are some practical steps:

• Take the long view.
• Practice being in the moment and enjoying the stage you’re in rather than assuming the grass is so much greener elsewhere and pining to be someplace you’re not. As with life, each stage of the writing journey is full of valuable lessons and opportunity for growth, if only you let it teach you.
• Find a way to get more process minded. Try to remove the onus of “publishing equals success.” I highly recommend Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way or Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic to find help in shifting your perspective.
• There are so many ways to define success! Challenge yourself to identify ten milestones of achievement that have nothing to do with being published.

This “nearly there” stage is equivalent to the "Dark Night of the Soul" in a character’s journey, when you feel that all is lost and your efforts have been in vain. Just like a character in a novel, you will have to dig deep, take a leap of faith, and recommit.

You may even have to quit writing for a while if you decide it is taking up too much of your life or distracting you from other things that require your attention. But there is a good chance that the writing monster has already sunk her long, seductive claws into you and that you will not be able to leave her behind as easily as you thought.

And once you discover that, you realize that publishing really is only one piece of the creative life. That recognition can allow you to take a deep breath and step back from the sense of urgency that nips too often at your heels. Or, at the very least, it can give you the perspective and patience to cheerfully slog your way forward.