Letting Go

How to Cope with Empty Writer’s Nest

Allie Larkin

A week before my first novel came out, I stood in line at the post office with an armload of early copies to mail and was struck hard with something akin to stage fright. My pulse quickened. My knees went weak. The flop sweat was significant. I wanted to flee, but I was smack in the middle of a long roped-off line and didn’t think I could calmly work my way out. I stayed put, the knot in my throat tightening every time the line moved forward. When it was finally my turn, I stumbled through the necessary explanations and payment, embarrassed by my sweaty fluster. I ran outside, jumped in my car, and cried the whole way home.

People were going to read my novel. People I knew. People I didn’t know. People I only sort of knew. The possibility of the kid who once sat behind me in high school algebra reading my words was the most strangely frightening prospect. My book was entirely fiction, but I still felt exposed. I was saying to the world: This is what I think about. This is how my heart feels. I hadn’t yet realized that it’s brave to write. I wasn’t expecting to feel so vulnerable.

In addition to having stage fright, I was sad. The characters I’d spent most of my adult life imagining were gone. For me, their story was over and it was time to share them. Of course, that’s the point. That’s why we finish and then publish books, but it was never why I wrote one. My novel was a labor of love. A compulsion. A need to spend time with incredible people who would not otherwise exist. Letting them go created a sharp, unexpected feeling of loss, and I didn’t know how to move to the next stage in the process. Everyone around me wanted to talk about the happiness of having a book published, but I wasn’t wholly happy. I felt ridiculous for holding sadness in my heart over an accomplishment, but I missed connecting with the people I’d created now that their story was over.

There’s an intimacy to the time we spend with our characters. Our books are most appealing when we put our whole hearts into them, fully embody the feelings of the people we’ve made up, and fall madly in love with them. It’s silly to think that letting go would be easy. Like leaving high school and going to college, the transition from one book to the next is not without tearful goodbyes. Acknowledging our feelings—all of them—is the best way to move on.

IF IT HURTS LIKE A BAD BREAKUP, EMPLOY BREAKUP RULES

Give yourself time to mourn the loss of a constant in your life. Play your writing playlist one last time. Watch movies your main character loves. Eat her favorite foods. Be gentle with yourself.

REACH OUT TO OTHER WRITERS

You may want to consider carefully whether you’ll tell the nonwriters in your life that the loss of imaginary people inspired your pajama-and-ice-cream wallow fest, but other writers will understand. Much comfort can be found in talking it through with people who have been there.

CHEAT

Going through the process of letting go of the characters from my first book was a bit easier because I’d left myself room for a sequel. “Goodbye for now” is easier than “goodbye for always.” Even if you never plan to write another book with the same characters, it’s okay to daydream about what they might do next or what they did before your book began. It’s not like drunk dialing an ex. There’s no rule against checking in with them.

ENJOY READER FEEDBACK, BUT KEEP IT IN CHECK

Hearing a reader’s story of connection is amazing. Knowing someone else understands and even loves your characters is a deeply rewarding experience. You are not alone! You created a story that speaks to readers! Unfortunately sometimes the search for positive feedback can also yield some dissenting opinions. Remember that nothing anyone else says about your work, good or bad, changes the experience you had with your characters. During the first fragile book launch days, have a trusted friend filter feedback for you. Knowing you have that filter in place can help quiet your nerves.

CELEBRATE

Toast to your characters, your hard work, and the accomplishment of finishing what you started. Even if part of you feels the loss, the part that relishes your success is also allowed to come out and play.

On launch day, I stood in my favorite bookstore, reading to a crowd of people I knew, people I didn’t know, and people I only sort of knew. My stage fright dissipated quickly because I realized that I was in a room full of readers. I was sharing my characters with people who wanted to meet them. I talked about how I came to write my first book, the places and events that inspired the story, and what the characters meant to me. I teared up while reading a passage, and it was a good thing, not a blunder. When I looked out at the audience and saw their kind, supportive faces looking back at me, I realized that it’s okay to show people how much you care. That’s what we’re here for. It’s a beautiful experience to share the way your heart feels, and we are deeply fortunate to have that opportunity.

When it came time to mail early copies of my second book, I made it through the line at the post office with dry armpits and a normal heartbeat. I shed a tear or two in the car on the way home. I knew I would miss those characters, but this time, I also expected the feelings that came from sending a book out into the world. Giving myself room to miss those guys also made room for happiness, and sending them off made room for the new cast of characters I was about to meet.