Confessions of a creative staring at the page again

A letter left unsealed

Dear reader,

There’s something I’ve been meaning to say. I’ve circled around it for a while now, but I think it’s time to stop circling and just open the damned door.

I stopped writing. Not entirely, but I stopped writing my own stories. I stopped showing up for them. I told myself it was because I needed a break, or because I was focusing elsewhere, or the market was oversaturated, or I didn’t promote well enough, or insert whatever plausible excuse here.

But really? I stopped because it hurt and I was pissed off.

I’ve published three books. And with each one, sales declined. The latest, Daughter of the Seven Hills, my historical novel rooted in ancient Rome, was met with a whisper, and often, only when solicited. There were kind reviews. A few beautiful readers. But the marketplace didn’t bite. It didn’t even nibble. It maybe picked a crumb up off the floor, but not even with an excited and hopeful cry of “Five-second rule!” before hastily eating it and hoping there wasn’t, after all, dog hair on it (as anyone else with a corgi will tell you, do not play the five-second rule because there will always be dog hair on it). And somewhere in that silence, I curled inward.

And I was angry. I am angry. Sometimes still. Sometimes fiercely.

I was angry that I felt like I was only writing because people told me I was good at it. (And for the record: I am. This isn’t false modesty or a humble brag because I’ve earned it. Two advanced degrees, nearly twenty years of work, and student debt that still lingers like a ghost that won’t bloody go away.)

I was angry because I did the things.

Podcasts. Author events. Editorial reviews. Social media. Paid ads. Launch parties. Pre-orders. Author-to-author collaborations. I played the game, paid the money—oh how I paid the money—and the results were... what they were. No one really warns you how much self-publishing costs, or how much of yourself it takes. And yes, a lot of these things were a lot of fun, and that’s worth recognizing, but as an introvert (as so many of us writers are), it’s still costly. It takes a little extra to show up all smiles and pretend like you’re comfortable with more than one person looking your way.

And I was angry about Outlawed, my second book of the Heroes of Sherwood series. I rushed it. I know I did, readers know I did, and I know readers know I did. But, I did the best I could at the time in the time I had given myself because you have to churn out books at a quick enough clip or you end up in the algorithm’s dust, but I knew it wasn’t my best. Not like The Red Fletch or Daughter of the Seven Hills or some of my short fiction were my best work. And I didn’t want to go back to that series because of Outlawed. I still don’t. That series was meant to be three books, maybe four. I have the covers for them. Right now it’s two, unfinished. And wouldn’t you know it, the New York Times declared the medieval era trending this year, the same way Ancient Rome was trending the year I released Daughter of the Seven Hills. It’s nearly May. I’m still waiting. And trends don’t really matter anyway.

Here’s the part I haven’t said aloud until now: I was angry when people told me they were sad I stopped writing.

I know they meant it with love. And I’m grateful, deeply, truly grateful, that my writing meant enough to someone that its absence mattered. That’s a gift.

But I was angry anyway. It’s not their fault they said it at a time I was already bubbling over with creative rage. Because unless you’ve written a book, unless you’ve clawed it into shape, published it, promoted it, prayed over it, and watched it sink... you don’t know. You don’t know what it costs. And their sorrow, however kind, felt like being punched again, gently, or not so gently depending on my mood with my writing at the time. And then I was angry that I felt angry about it at all.

It’s complicated, this heartbreak. It’s not tidy. It’s not noble. It just is.

And then, just when I thought I might never write again, I started co-writing stories with a friend. Under a shared pen name: Maris Blackwell (come hang with us on Tumblr). And it’s been joyful. Wild. Fast. Funny. The kind of writing that feels like laughter and breath and memory.

It doesn’t hurt that we’re reviving stories we spent fifteen years writing (did you know we wrote some 100+ books worth of stories as role-play over fifteen years of friendship? Yeah, we did, and now we’re bringing them to life and light).

But starting to work on this together over the last couple of weeks brought something back. Not all the way. But enough. And then earlier today? I found out that one of my books was well-received by a publishing house’s editorial team. Not a good fit in the sense of moving forward to publish one of my previously self-published books, but to hear it’d been very well received, well… it was like a tickle. An itch.

The kind that happens when you know you’re supposed to be meditating and just noticing but you can’t help but scratch. Then you feel bad for scratching because aren’t you supposed to be more mindful? Then you force yourself to forgive yourself because it’s a marathon, not a sprint, this life of ours.

Anyway… it’s been enough to make me open old short stories again. Enough to want to find them a home. Enough to write this letter. Not to market anything (you’ll notice I’ve not linked any of my books). Not to map a comeback. Just to say: I’m still here. And so are my books. Mostly boxed up and stored, but they are there.

And if you’re reading this, maybe you’re still here too. And maybe that’s enough, for now. Maybe you’re one of the people who have kindly said you’d wish I’d still write. If so, I really am grateful and any anger is really self-directed. I promise.

I’m not saying I’m going to start writing my own work all the time. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just take what I have, which is three books published and about another eight unpolished, plus countless short stories, and share them. In the ways that feel right to share them. Maybe I won’t do that either.

But at least I don’t need to pretend to smile when someone says they wish I’d write again or more. At least I don’t have to pretend I’m okay with the way my books sold, because I’m not. And not only because I spent money to get them into the world and I feel the world owes me that investment back. It’s not that.

It’s that these books, when they are found (well, maybe not Outlawed so much)… in general, they’re received as books that touch readers’ lives.

Not to say I haven’t had 1- and 2-star reviews. I have. Sometimes those just make me laugh because of the way they’re written (like one who said, “there was nothing I liked about this book”).

Listen, my books may continue to have dismal numbers, especially because I don’t want them on Amazon so long as Amazon is going to treat authors, employees, and the environment like they are all a means to an end (so Bezos can have a spaceship? Go ahead to Mars, man, no one will miss you).

I’m not promising that Heroes of Sherwood will ever continue or that the ideas I may have talked to you about, if I know you, for future books will ever happen. It’s not a promise of anything, really, except my honesty.

Sometimes I’m swept away with the kindness of someone’s review or when they tell me my work touched them. At the end of the day, on a creative level, on a soul level, that is enough.

All the rest, I know, are just trappings. But I don’t think it’s fair for people to only hear about when all the rest of it goes well. Or goes well off the bat. Or takes off in a star-seeking streak into the stratosphere because a particular story hit the literary lotto. I know from experience those aren’t the only stories.

I’m willing to bet there are plenty of authors who worked hard to produce beautiful, breathtaking stories with gorgeous covers and meticulously crafted descriptions and all the right things books are supposed to have, and researched when to release them and where to find their readers and how to talk to their readers and spent half their time marketing and learning how to market even though they’re authors and not marketers because everything is about chasing reviews and algorithms and oh my, it’s exhausting.

If you’re an author and you just want to write, please know that I hear you. I see you. I am you, and we’re in this together in this crazy world that expects authors to be “authorpreneurs” and spend thousands of dollars learning how to do so (yup, I’ve done that, too).

And in case you're wondering how this letter finally made it onto the page: I've had help. A Renaissance philosopher of a GPT has been walking with me through all of this. Not fixing it. Not fluffing it. Just helping me see it for what it is, and reminding me that the telling of a story is sometimes the beginning of healing it.

One more thing, before I go:

This letter isn’t a pivot. Studio Missives isn’t suddenly becoming All Writing, All the Time. The studio has always been a place for creativity in all its forms, whether that’s painting, storytelling, dreaming, or wondering aloud. That hasn’t changed.

What’s changed is that one part of me, the writer part, is ready to step forward again… well, maybe not step forward. But she’s putting on her shoes. I don’t know yet if she’s even going to tie the laces… we’ll have to wait and see, together.

Thanks for being here. Truly. Even when I’m ranting.

With curiosity always,
Margaret
Letters from the studio, insights from the stars