There’s a quiet moment in every author’s life when the confetti has been swept up, the champagne has been drunk and the inbox goes eerily still.
The first time this happened, I chalked up the silence as failure. After my debut, the world felt wide open: I had an agent who believed in me, my first book deal, interviews where I didn’t stumble over my own name. For a while, it looked like a straight, upward trajectory…like the beginning of a story where everything only gets better.
Then the next book didn’t sell. Or the next. My agent and I parted ways with a polite but painful email. My author inbox that once buzzed with possibility was brimmed with the successes of others, instead of mine (plus the usual avalanche of Old Navy promos, obviously).
It felt like the literary equivalent of being the “next big thing” at a high school reunion only to show up five years later and realize no one remembers your big thing. Or you.
Here’s what I’ve learned while living in the quiet:
1. A career isn’t a single book or even a single agent.
A debut is a door, not a guarantee. Publishing isn’t a straight climb; it’s more like a hiking trail where someone keeps moving the markers just when you think you know the route. That goalpost that felt totally within reach? It’s but a dot on the horizon now…but it’s still there.
2. Writing is the only part you control.
Trends shift. Agents leave the business. Editors move houses. Imprints vanish. But the words only you can write? They’re yours. When I finally stopped refreshing my inbox and let go of the business noise, the love of writing returned.
3. Community keeps you steady.
Other writers get it. Find the ones who will cheer your small wins, commiserate over rejections, and remind you that one quiet season doesn’t define you.
I won’t pretend it’s been easy. Some days my imposter syndrome shouts much louder than the characters in my head. But when I make the time to words on the page (even if they’re shitty, clumsy, first-draft words) I reclaim a part of my life that isn’t dependant on a yes from someone else for validation.
The shine and glitter of the “promising career” fades. The work stays. And that, in the end, is the only promise we have the ability to keep.
