Great thoughts here, HH. Caring too much about what others think can at times lead to a type of stifling.
I've been amused recently that my book, which was added to Kirkus Reviews' best 100 indie books of 2025 (they review 10k+ books/year) was also rejected in the first round of the sci-fi subcategory my state's annual writing contest (something like 280 entries). The majority of readers have loved it, but I still remember the reviewer who rated it 3 out of 5 and declared that the story makes no sense, or the fellow writer who read the first page and diagnosed that the critical acclaim was misplaced and what I really needed to do was hire an editor and work on my fundamentals.
In the winter, I was approached by a well-known foreign rights agent who loved the book and wanted to sell it in France. But as an indie author, all sales come down to my (lackluster) marketing, and once she saw my sales numbers, she rescinded her offer because she's got to show to foreign publishers that I have a proven track record. No hard feelings, plus an offer to reach out again if the numbers are up, but the drama is real.
I am not interested in guilt-tripping other authors, and two contrasting notions can be true at the same time: That if we want inspiration, we have to go after it with a club (J. London), and also that life is not a support system for art, but art for life (S. King).
Basically, I think Anais Nin was right: "If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it."
Anyway, I feel your pain. For me, work is slow-going right now, as my SS hiatus evidences :)
This is such a generous, clear-eyed comment. Thank you for taking the time to write it.
That whiplash you describe is exactly the thing people don’t see from the outside. “Best of” list on one hand, first-round rejection on the other. Admiration from readers, dismissal from a gatekeeper who skimmed a page. Interest from a foreign rights agent, then the cold math of sales numbers. None of those outcomes invalidate the others, but living inside that contradiction can grind you down. I remember getting my first one-star review, but I took it stride as validation that I was a real writer. You can’t please everyone.
What struck me most is your point about agency. We don’t talk enough about the fact that stopping, slowing, or stepping back can be an intentional choice rather than a failure. Deciding why and for how long matters. Otherwise, the decision gets made for us by exhaustion, resentment, or self-doubt that never quite shuts off.
I also love how you hold those two ideas together without trying to resolve them. Sometimes you do have to go after inspiration with a club. Sometimes art exists to keep a life from collapsing inward. Both are true, depending on the day.
And that Anaïs Nin quote… yes. That’s the line, isn’t it. Writing as respiration rather than résumé. The moment it turns into proof instead of breath, something vital starts leaking out.
I appreciate you sharing the messiness as much as the accolades. It helps more than you probably realize. And slow-going seasons don’t mean the engine’s dead. Sometimes it’s just idling, waiting for the road to open up again.
I am so glad I kept your words flowing into my inbox, HH. In just about every other way I had completely disavowed all meaningful reading, as an extension of a distaste for writing anything else. If I can't enjoy my own words, why should I care about anyone else's, right? It was the very things you are talking about, in my case manifested as a grudge against all of literature. This is in contrast to a few years ago I was re-invigorated to read more seriously. So much so that I wrote a novel on the subjectivity of our interdependencies with technology. It's an allegory of free will in the guise of a subtle techno-conspiracy. Herein lies the paradox. My main characters are all saddled with a Machiavellian need to acquiesce to algorithms in order to further their best intentions. It was a compelling storyline to pursue. Sadly, upon completing and publishing my work, I found that I too was expected to be a programmatic pied piper, consuming and contributing to the rotting hay of social media such that I might somehow lure the shortform attentions of readers back to something more meaningful. Agents and publishers demand social media presence, yet consumers can't escape social media to crack open a book. And as an author of something that decries this whole sordid cycle, it's an impossible situation. It's the ultimate loathe-hate relationship where my only strategy has been to crawl back into the shadows of impartial literary influence, my disdain for any promoted publication weighing heavily on my drooping posture, such that even holding a book causes me to fall flat on my face. I look at the bookshelf as the thing that manifests the end of reading, and the bookshop as the herald of the last word. Thank you and good day to you sir.
Michael, thank you for this. You put words to something I think a lot of us feel but rarely admit out loud.
That paradox you describe, writing against the machine and then being told you must become part of the machine to justify the work, feels especially cruel. It turns craft into compliance and curiosity into obligation. No wonder the bookshelf starts to feel like a gravestone instead of an invitation.
I don’t have a solution for it, and I’m suspicious of anyone who claims they do. What I keep coming back to is smaller and maybe less useful to the algorithm, moments where writing and reading stop being transactional. Where the work isn’t trying to go anywhere, prove anything, or lure anyone. It just exists long enough to remind us why we cared in the first place.
If nothing else, I’m grateful you stayed long enough to write this, and that you’re still thinking seriously about books even when they feel like they’re letting you down. That still counts.
Great thoughts here, HH. Caring too much about what others think can at times lead to a type of stifling.
I've been amused recently that my book, which was added to Kirkus Reviews' best 100 indie books of 2025 (they review 10k+ books/year) was also rejected in the first round of the sci-fi subcategory my state's annual writing contest (something like 280 entries). The majority of readers have loved it, but I still remember the reviewer who rated it 3 out of 5 and declared that the story makes no sense, or the fellow writer who read the first page and diagnosed that the critical acclaim was misplaced and what I really needed to do was hire an editor and work on my fundamentals.
In the winter, I was approached by a well-known foreign rights agent who loved the book and wanted to sell it in France. But as an indie author, all sales come down to my (lackluster) marketing, and once she saw my sales numbers, she rescinded her offer because she's got to show to foreign publishers that I have a proven track record. No hard feelings, plus an offer to reach out again if the numbers are up, but the drama is real.
I wrote some years ago on the question of why some people quit writing, and I think we have not merely the right but the responsibility to determine if we're going to stop doing this, when, for how long, and why (https://danielrodriguesmartin.substack.com/p/why-do-people-quit-writing-dear-writer).
I am not interested in guilt-tripping other authors, and two contrasting notions can be true at the same time: That if we want inspiration, we have to go after it with a club (J. London), and also that life is not a support system for art, but art for life (S. King).
Basically, I think Anais Nin was right: "If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it."
Anyway, I feel your pain. For me, work is slow-going right now, as my SS hiatus evidences :)
This is such a generous, clear-eyed comment. Thank you for taking the time to write it.
That whiplash you describe is exactly the thing people don’t see from the outside. “Best of” list on one hand, first-round rejection on the other. Admiration from readers, dismissal from a gatekeeper who skimmed a page. Interest from a foreign rights agent, then the cold math of sales numbers. None of those outcomes invalidate the others, but living inside that contradiction can grind you down. I remember getting my first one-star review, but I took it stride as validation that I was a real writer. You can’t please everyone.
What struck me most is your point about agency. We don’t talk enough about the fact that stopping, slowing, or stepping back can be an intentional choice rather than a failure. Deciding why and for how long matters. Otherwise, the decision gets made for us by exhaustion, resentment, or self-doubt that never quite shuts off.
I also love how you hold those two ideas together without trying to resolve them. Sometimes you do have to go after inspiration with a club. Sometimes art exists to keep a life from collapsing inward. Both are true, depending on the day.
And that Anaïs Nin quote… yes. That’s the line, isn’t it. Writing as respiration rather than résumé. The moment it turns into proof instead of breath, something vital starts leaking out.
I appreciate you sharing the messiness as much as the accolades. It helps more than you probably realize. And slow-going seasons don’t mean the engine’s dead. Sometimes it’s just idling, waiting for the road to open up again.
I’m really glad you said something here.
If it's helpful to you or anyone else, so am I!
I have your book, BTW, but time is the problem. I hope to get to it soon.
I am so glad I kept your words flowing into my inbox, HH. In just about every other way I had completely disavowed all meaningful reading, as an extension of a distaste for writing anything else. If I can't enjoy my own words, why should I care about anyone else's, right? It was the very things you are talking about, in my case manifested as a grudge against all of literature. This is in contrast to a few years ago I was re-invigorated to read more seriously. So much so that I wrote a novel on the subjectivity of our interdependencies with technology. It's an allegory of free will in the guise of a subtle techno-conspiracy. Herein lies the paradox. My main characters are all saddled with a Machiavellian need to acquiesce to algorithms in order to further their best intentions. It was a compelling storyline to pursue. Sadly, upon completing and publishing my work, I found that I too was expected to be a programmatic pied piper, consuming and contributing to the rotting hay of social media such that I might somehow lure the shortform attentions of readers back to something more meaningful. Agents and publishers demand social media presence, yet consumers can't escape social media to crack open a book. And as an author of something that decries this whole sordid cycle, it's an impossible situation. It's the ultimate loathe-hate relationship where my only strategy has been to crawl back into the shadows of impartial literary influence, my disdain for any promoted publication weighing heavily on my drooping posture, such that even holding a book causes me to fall flat on my face. I look at the bookshelf as the thing that manifests the end of reading, and the bookshop as the herald of the last word. Thank you and good day to you sir.
Michael, thank you for this. You put words to something I think a lot of us feel but rarely admit out loud.
That paradox you describe, writing against the machine and then being told you must become part of the machine to justify the work, feels especially cruel. It turns craft into compliance and curiosity into obligation. No wonder the bookshelf starts to feel like a gravestone instead of an invitation.
I don’t have a solution for it, and I’m suspicious of anyone who claims they do. What I keep coming back to is smaller and maybe less useful to the algorithm, moments where writing and reading stop being transactional. Where the work isn’t trying to go anywhere, prove anything, or lure anyone. It just exists long enough to remind us why we cared in the first place.
If nothing else, I’m grateful you stayed long enough to write this, and that you’re still thinking seriously about books even when they feel like they’re letting you down. That still counts.
Good to have you here.