On Delayed Joy

or: what is even happening right now

I’m an “expect the worst, hope for the best” kind of person. There are few things we creatives control in the transition between art and business, and so it’s foolish to think that any of us will ever make it through unscathed by rejection or failure, especially in the many parts of the job that ultimately come down to waiting for someone else to send you an email.

That said, there is ALSO very little value to self-rejection or DEjection. They’re rejecting us anyway, babes, why on earth should we help them out? Thus. Hope.

Photo by Aleksandr Ledogorov on Unsplash

In general, this mantra has proved absolutely essential to my ability to be even a little bit chill, ever. I will always keep my expectations tempered, but my hopes high, so I don’t begrudge myself my failures nor mistake my successes for forgone conclusions.

The only time it’s failed me, though, is in what I’ve experienced as a sort of delayed joy. When good things happen to me, creatively or professionally, I often underestimate them for months—years—at a time until, all of a sudden, I’m reminded that I’m living the last year’s hopes with today’s expectations. Or, more simply: Holy S*** That Actually Happened. It IS happening, right now.

In 2013, I got into a pretty selective young writer’s program. When I got my letter of acceptance, my parents excitedly printed it out and slipped it under my bedroom door, but I mostly remember just smiling small and thinking, “Oh, good. The worst thing”—in this case, rejection—”didn’t happen.” I was so relieved at the fact that I didn’t have to despair that I almost forgot to rejoice.

Until, of course, much much later, when I realized that I’d just had an experience that meant a lot to myself and to a lot of young creatives. That my acceptance to begin with spoke to something about my existing work, and that the lessons I learned—and confidence earned—in that workshop were major stepping stones in achieving my dreams that I’ve carried with me ever since.

That same feeling lingers, ever and often. When I remember that I queried a book, that I have a literary agent I respect and adore, that the same book I wrote and rewrote and edited and queried and edited again…is a thing that exists. That it will exist, and soon. That people have read it—have liked it! And, with any luck, it is the first stone in a path I will pave for many years, and many books, to come.

Looking forward is important. Continuing the chain of managed expectations and lofty hopes. I hope my debut will perform well. I hope lots of people like it. I hope it earns out its advance and that it encourages publishers and readers alike to pick up more stories from me in the future.

But I must not forget that there was once a time that my guiding hope, the biggest and loftiest and most precious of all, was “I hope I get to publish a book one day.”

In that way, my debut novel isn’t the first step on this road at all, is it? It’s simply the first paved brick in a path already weathered into the earth with the force of my hope.

I’m not sure what the thesis of this post is other than to sit in my current wave of gratitude for all the joys I forgot to feel, but perhaps it’s also meant to serve as a reminder to you, Dear Reader, to expect the worst and hope for the best. But also, and always, remember to celebrate old hopes realized. Success isn’t about clearing the bar of anticipated failure, damn it! It’s about hope! And hard work, sure, but really?

It’s all, every breath, about hope.