How success (or the possibility of success) might just mess me up worse than failure

I've mostly figured out rejection, but not what to do when things go well

In fifth grade, I wrote a very assertive essay declaring myself a pessimist. It’s not difficult to recreate my adolescent reasoning. Expecting the worst is a form of protection. Why not spare myself the pain of hoping and then being disappointed, especially when it came to that boy I had a crush on?

Maybe things changed or maybe that twelve-year-old version of myself was lying. Either way, I’ve discovered in the last few years that I’m very much not a pessimist. When everyone else was imagining the very worst-case scenarios during the pandemic, I was like, “Oh, it’ll get better in no time.” I was wrong, of course, but contradictory to my twelve-year-old predictions, I survived the disappointment. Every time, I survived. Every time, I went back to believing things would be better soon.

The same is true in my teaching life. When my students carefully explain to me that nothing will ever get better because people are inherently selfish or greedy or just crap, I laugh. I mean, literally, I laugh out loud, partly because I’ve heard every generation of students say the exact same thing. I also laugh because I don’t believe it. I don’t believe we’re inherently selfish or greedy or crap. I do believe there’s always the possibility that things will get better, mostly because I’m modest enough to admit that I have no idea how things will be. Better is just as likely as worse.

Photo by Ron Smith on Unsplash

My optimism also surfaces with the bum, arthritic knee I’ve been struggling with all summer. Every now and then, I have a day with zero pain. There’s no way to predict when one of these days will come, but when they do, every single time I’m convinced that this is it. At last, my knee is better. Forever. I will never feel pain again. I am cured for all time, the darkness behind me at last. Every single time, a part of me believes this. My irrepressible inner optimist cannot stop herself. The next day when my knee hurts, yeah, that is sort of a bummer.

Anyway, is anyone really a full-on pessimist or are they just deeply depressed? Hope, it seems to me, is a really difficult emotion to banish altogether. Maybe that’s just me.

Because of this irrepressible optimism, I’ve realized lately that in my writing life, success or the hint of possible success is much more difficult to deal with than, you know, outright rejection. At this point in my writing life, rejection is mundane. Expected. Oh, is it Tuesday? Time for another rejection.

That might be a slight exaggeration. Some rejections still sting more than others. The worse by far is the you-got-so-close rejection. Also less fun is the we-love-this-so-much-but rejection, but I’ve gotten better even at that dealing with that one.

No, what really throws me for a loop at this point in my writing life is, you know, what’s supposed to be the good stuff. I send out a pitch and someone says they’re interested in the essay. An agent to whom I sent a query asks to see more. These are good things, so why, when they happen, do I feel a little, um, panicked? Why after getting these e-mails, the kind you fiend for as a writer, do I feel like I did when I was little, playing catch with my dad, and the ball caught me right in the chest, leaving me gasping and absolutely certain that I was going to die.

Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but you get the point. These dangling possibilities steal all my momentum for a few days. I feel lost in the face of impending writing success. I feel adrift and uncertain, emotions that rejections generally don’t elicit in my anymore. What’s going on?

It could be that what I’m feeling is excitement, which at least for me, is anxiety’s close twin. Am I anxious? Or excited? So hard to tell the difference. They feel basically the same. Also, there’s a lot of anxiety that comes with success or even the possibility of success. In these instances, will the outlet that asked for the essay actually publish it? Will the agent read the material they requested? Will it lead to anything more than another rejection?

Even if everything turns out in the best-case scenario, there’s still anxiety to be dealt with. Yes, when I have an essay published somewhere I am excited, but also anxious. Will people like it? Will it make sense? Will it make people mad and lead to me getting doxed and then having to move to another country?

Photo by the blowup on Unsplash

If the agent makes an offer, that doesn’t mean we’ll actually ever sell the book. The first couple times I was out on submission, my total cluelessness about the process helped with my anxiety, but now I know more and that’s not always the best thing. If I get another agent, how long before this one dumps me when yet another book flops, landing me once again at the bottom in this endless publishing game of chutes and ladders. You get the idea, right?

The other day I posted on Notes, “On my best days, I really feel what an incredible gift my almost total obscurity is.” This was inspired partly by that tiny run of possible successes, as well as by the five minutes I spent poking around Substack only to discover that a fairly big deal writer had been liking a lot of my newsletters. This, of course, made me feel panicked because almost everything makes me feel panicked.

On good days, I do feel that obscurity is a gift. One good days, I am just over here, in my lane, writing weird stuff that helps me figure out what I think about the world and maybe some other people enjoy reading it, too. Cool, cool. There’s a lot of freedom in that. No one wants me to be building a brand or promoting a book. It feels at times like almost every idea I have for a new project is deeply unmarketable, but in my obscurity, I’m free to dive right into it. Marketability be damned.

I think even the slightest whiff of success interferes with that steady peace of obscurity. Somewhere deep inside I imagine people paying attention to what I do and it is…unsettling. It’s that disquiet which makes me feel a little lost.

Of course, this is nothing new. Artists have always struggled with success and how surprisingly disturbing it can be. I’m not saying anything new and I’m not even experiencing that much success. Imagine if I was actually, you know, a big deal.

It’s ironic that as a writer, I get a lot more opportunities to practice dealing with rejection. I won’t say I’ve mastered it, but I’ve definitely gotten better at absorbing the blow and moving on. I have less chances to get used to dealing with success or its possibility. Still, I’d like to figure out a strategy for that, too. This time around, I felt adrift for a week or so, which isn’t a huge deal. It’d be nice to take it more in stride though. It would be good to feel a bit less freaked out.

I don’t want to revert back to my twelve-year-old pessimist self (assuming that wasn’t a lie I was telling myself). I don’t want to assume that every beam of light will be swallowed by darkness. I want to find that sweet spot between hope and excitement and still following the steady path I’ve laid out for myself.

Hey, thanks so much to the folks who became new subscribers and paid subscribers and the first ever reader to buy me a cup of coffee! All of you rock and make it easier for me to keep writing and stay on that steady path. I’m so glad you’re here.