Behind the Scenes in a Writer's Life: It's Ugly Before It's Beautiful

The first thing you need to know is that I write to be of use to you. I am rooting for all of us to make it. I try to write nonfiction that helps.

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It's the Summer of 2016. I'm a newly-minted New York Times bestselling author of the book, How to Raise an Adult, which is on the harm of helicopter parenting. My agent tells the folks at my publishing house that my memoir on race, Real American, is done and ready to go. But my publishing house is so pleased with the parenting book that they want a sequel. And they say that yes they'll publish my memoir, but only if I also write a sequel to the parenting book. So, I agree. I'm elated that they believe in me enough to offer a two-book deal! I feel like I'm really going places. My publisher and I sign a contract without even discussing what "a sequel" to the parenting book might entail. I trust that it will all work out.

It doesn't.

I mean, Real American goes fine. It comes out in the fall of 2017 as planned. I'm busy on tour with it through the winter, and at every stop someone grabs my hand and tries to hold onto their tears as they tell me how my stories about being treated as the "other" are similar to their own. The kinship we feel toward each other kneads the pain of these longstanding memories in us both. We linger in the relief of being completely seen and understood, by a stranger, at least for a moment.

But the devil on my shoulder is telling me that I'm supposed to be working on the sequel. ("Supposed to be" is how my mind puts it. Do you hear the equivocation? The lack of agency? As if I'm being made to? (Well aren't I?) And yet, didn't I choose it? (Did I? Am I rebelling against that? Have I made a Faustian bargain?))

My contract says the sequel will be out in 2018.

It won't.

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Back in late 2016, a few months after signing the contract to write these two books, my editor and I had hopped on a call to discuss the overarching shape of this mysterious sequel. She surprised me when she described it as a manual for parents of grown kids and then proceeded to suggest what it could entail. "Wait. No, wait." I said. "Back up. The author of a book on the harm of helicopter parenting is not going to write a book for the parents of 'grown children.' This book needs to be for the young adults." It was a heated conversation. Almost an argument–and one I'm glad to have won. I've claimed my audience, and I feel good about that. But it's just the first of many decisions requiring my editor's approval. And the remaining approvals will be much harder to come by.

As 2018 gets underway and with Real American behind me, the pressure to write the sequel is now fully on. My first task is to deliver an outline demonstrating the shape of the thing. I think about what I know to be true of young adults who are struggling, and draft an outline of the things that I would tell them by way of guidance, inspiration, and reassurance. My editor rejects it. It doesn't sound bold or specific enough, she tells me. A few weeks later, I try again, this time with the hopeful header, "Is this better?" She replies. "It IS better." But she won't say what this means for months. And when she does, I will discover that she was being nice. As in, Yes this IS better. But it still SUCKS.

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Over the next eighteen months, I periodically send new drafts of outlines to my editor and pray. I make short videos to announce each latest bit of progress to my followers, who by now are asking with annoying frequency, "How's that new book coming?" (Because, after all, back in 2016 I'd proudly announced the fact that I was writing a sequel to my first book.) I don't even know if I want to write this book but I've told the world I'm writing this book and I'm failing to write this book and what the hell will come of me if I can't write this damn book? I'm caught up in my own "be careful what you wish for" hellhole.

In every one of these 'progress' videos you can see my eyes pleading to God the Universe and Everybody (my personal trinity) Please let this be good. Every rejection from my editor comes in the form of a descriptive email asking for a phone call where I will take ten to twelve pages of notes on what I'm doing right and wrong. With every rejection, I feel more detached from the project. Less responsible for its success. More resentful. I grow increasingly mad at my editor for making me write this book. I feel less like a New York Times best-selling author and more like a petulant toddler. I may even be acting like one.

My editor gently reminds me that I will get my next installment of cash when I deliver an acceptable outline. And that WOULD BE nice. And it WILL BE nice. And if I simply could I obviously would.

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Thing is, I know my drafts suck. And I know why. Dread swims in my stomach as I scan the walls of my tiny outdoor office for any evidence of either a diploma or other credentials that might suggest that I would be capable of writing such a book. My inner voice is screaming Who the hell is an expert on adulting? Either we all are, or no one is. Yet I've gone and signed a contract to be the person who has the audacity to try to do this.

Plus, even if I somehow do have the authority to give an entire generation of humans life advice, how would I give useful relevant advice to each individual reader when each reader is leading their very own specific unique life? Adulthood isn't a treacherous trek down a narrow path into the Grand Canyon on the back of a donkey where one wrong step means you're a goner so you give everyone the exact same instructions for how to survive it. Adulthood is a beautiful wide open landscape that you get to navigate as suits you. How am I going to demonstrate that?

I take a different tack. I decide to write a book comprised of the accumulated wisdom of lots of people, to demonstrate in the craft of it that there is no "path," no "right track." I put a survey out into the world which asks questions like: Do you think you're an adult and if so, how do you know? And Was there a moment when you knew? I hope to show my readers what the markers of adulthood sound like. I want to show the shifts that get a person there. I'm increasingly clear that adulthood is less a destination and more a state of mind. A "YES, I CAN OR AT LEAST I'M GONNA DAMN TRY AND I'LL BE FINE NO MATTER WHAT" sort of thing. I want that gestalt in my pages. Over 250 people respond. My research assistant and I interview a bunch of them. As proof of how powerful the collective stories of humans from all walks of life can be, in September 2018 I turn in 100 pages of profiles on other people who struggled with but ultimately succeeded at adulting, organized by age from youngest to oldest. On a long long call with my editor, her assistant, my agent, and my research assistant, my editor says, "Your readers don't want to hear the stories of other people. They want to hear from YOU."

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It's March of 2019. I've gone silent. My editor pings me about my progress. I can only assume that by now, she and her colleagues in the publishing house are going What the hell is wrong with Julie Lythcott-Haims. Meantime when friends and family ask about the book, I say, "I am never again agreeing to write a book someone else wants me to write." I say, "This thing is like a stepchild I don't want to adopt."

I am angry – at whom, I'm not sure. Maybe I'm just embarrassed.

And then, out of the blue, I have a breakthrough. It's July 2019.

It comes on the heels of a conversation with a young adult about how excruciating it feels at Thanksgiving or some other family gathering when an older relative asks what you're up to and doesn't seem to approve of your answer. I'm instantly reminded that I'm a different kind of adult. That I'm the adult who knows how to have those conversations respectfully, with curiosity and kindness, whose body language and words say to a person Cool, sounds interesting, say more, I'm listening. I'm reminded of my own journey where I was judged, misunderstood, or came up short in the eyes of others. I'm reminded of the strength of compassion and vulnerability.

I've finally located the authority I've been searching for. I tell myself I just need to figure out how to put that respectful, curious, helpful, compassionate, vulnerable voice of mine onto the page. I admit that I do have advice to offer based on my own experiences from over fifty years of life. And that I've had the great fortune of meeting dozens of other humans from all different walks of life who are willing to lend their voices to my pages.

I record another video. "I'm hoping that this is progress," I tell my followers. My voice is weary, like I'm on the verge of giving up yet can glimpse a shard of bright light at the end of this tunnel and I'm proceeding through the sheer power of will. "You can't know when you're in it," I tell my followers, about good writing. "When you feel it, you just write, and hope – hope to fucking God that this is good."

I write an entire chapter called "Stop Pleasing Others: They Have No Idea Who You Are." It's about work and identity and ignoring the cacophony of other people's expectations long enough so that you can hear your own voice. It's funny, frank, accurate, bold, practical, and insistent. It opens with stories from my life (what my editor wants), it segues to practical tips (which I know the media loves), and it concludes with three profiles of people whose life trajectories illustrate the point of the chapter (which is the set of diverse viewpoints that I want in there). This mashup of memoir, self help, and biography feels like the structure I've been searching for the whole time but could never manifest until now. I send it to my editor with a note that concludes, "I think it’s safe to say I finally own this book as mine." (This is the closest I can come to apologizing for my attitude.)

The very next day, I'm on a call with my editor and my agent. My editor says, “This went down like butter. Made me laugh and made me cry. Oh my God you figured it out. It wasn’t coming out of you but now it is. It has it all. Keep going. I’m really trusting you now. I’m signing off on this.”

I cry. (And I do a video of me crying for my followers. Lol.)

My editor's green-light means that I can now write an entire book based on the format of this chapter (and that after three long years, I'll finally get paid my next installment, thank God). My editor wants the completed manuscript by February 2020, seven months from now. I'm good with that. I've gone from this book is a hated stepchild to this book is my beloved. I'm in love with this book now.

And I feel such compassion for its readers. I level with them from the start by opening with the following:

I'm focused. Dedicated. DEVOTED! And I'm on my way to completion!

Except I'm not.

Cuz, wouldn't you know it, life crops up and creeps in. I'm still giving about fifty talks a year on my other books. Summer is when I would have time to write this book but summer is waning and this thing is due in February? I'm on the board of a bunch of nonprofits, one of which has taken an unexpectedly poor turn and requires a ton of my time. And even though I finally WANT TO WRITE THIS DAMN BOOK BECAUSE I AM IN LOVE WITH IT I cannot keep life at bay. I write in every stolen moment. When I'm in the zone, it feels so good. I can't believe how good it feels at times.

But there's so much to this book. So much advice of my own to call up. So many practical tips to devise. Thirty-one profiles of other people to write. In January 2020 I take myself off on a writing retreat with my friend Susan and her husband. Later that month, I take myself alone to the ocean for a week and I lug twenty-five books up there with me, books by other people who have dared to write on this and related topics, so that I can surround myself with their success and feel less alone.

February 2020 arrives. I am not done with the book. One of my kids has a mental health crisis. Then the pandemic begins. Both of my kids come home. Both struggle significantly in their own way. My mother, now isolated from the world, needs me to spend more time with her. My revenue from public speaking implodes because of the lockdown. I write every day throughout all of this. I send completed chapters to my editor and I get her feedback. We don't speak of deadlines, I just write like my life depends on it.

I write.

We pick a title. We pick a cover.

I write.

I write.

In August I take myself on a three-week writing retreat to the Santa Cruz mountains only to be evacuated after three days, due to raging fire.

I come home and keep writing.

My editor and I last touch the copy in October 2020. She leaves the publishing company soon after, joking that working on this book has given her an opportunity to think about what she really wants in life. The lawyers review it. It's done.

Your Turn: How to Be an Adult publishes in April 2021, gets great reviews from important people and publications, and I even get to be on morning TV which is terrifying but also cool.

But better than the media and the fanfare are the handwritten letters and notes from readers who thank me for holding their hand. I tell them I'm so glad to be of use. I tell them I'm rooting for all of us.

🏚You've been in Julie's Pod, an online community for folks who know that by opening up and getting vulnerable we grow and help others do the same. You can subscribe here. (It's free. Subscribing just means that you'll get me in your inbox so you don't have to go searching for whatever I said next.) If you want to share this with a friend, please do.

🧐 If you missed last week's post about the Senate's treatment of Judge (now Justice!) Ketanji Brown Jackson, you can read that here. Other popular posts include one on the trauma and tragedy of youth suicide which is here, and the role parents can play in turning normal childhood fears into outright anxieties which is here.

🗓 What a difference three years makes: Your Turn: How to Be an Adult came out three years late. It speaks, among other things, to the necessity of learning to fend for yourself, the harm of perfectionism, the value of good character, how to work hard and to work equally hard at being good to other humans, how to take care of your mind, body, and pocketbook, and how to try to make this broken world a better place. The final chapter urges "Above All Else: Keep Going." And I say amen and hallelujah to that. Many of the lessons I offer readers in the book are lessons I re-learned the hard way while trying to write it. TED has asked me to create an asynchronous course based on Your Turn which, assuming all goes well 😳 should be coming your way this summer. But you know how I am with deadlines... so please root for me.

📝 If you left a comment on any post before today, here or on social media, I've probably responded, and I always appreciate what you have to say even if I may feel differently. Please feel welcome to join the conversation. I want you to.

☎️ For those who can't comment publicly, I've set up the hotline 1-877-HI-JULIE where you can leave an anonymous voicemail to let me know what's on your mind. I summarize and respond to these calls most Mondays live on my Facebook page at noon Pacific Time (while keeping the caller's identity private).

😷 I wrote this particular installment of Julie's Pod propped up against pillows in my bed while recovering from Covid, a condition which further helped me accept the old adage that, "Sometimes good enough is good enough."

👋🏽 If you're interested in learning more about me and my work, please follow me @jlythcotthaims on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and/or TikTok and check out my website.

🎁 If you've read this far, you are definitely entitled to a free "Julie's Pod" sticker for your laptop, phone, or water bottle courtesy of me and the U.S. Postal Service. Just DM me your snail mail address (or if you don't know how to DM a person, just email me@lythcott-haims.com). I promise to toss your snail mail address in the trash as soon as I pop the sticker in the mail to you!

📸 Cover Photo Credit: Getty Images/Alashi/DigitalVision Vectors

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