Inertia [FREE]
On starting over (again)
Wallowing.
That’s where I’ve been the past few months. The long absence from posting was a direct result of some pretty significant setbacks earlier in the year, and I’ve been in an absolute hole as a result. Just kind of feeling lousy, if I can be candid. Who am I kidding? I’m always candid here. It’s ironical (that’s right, that was on purpose) that I just passed a very significant professional milestone at work, for which I’ve been the subject of some very kind words. And yet.
I won’t belabor the rocky end to last year’s ski season. But shortly after, I was forced to sever ties with my literary agent. I say that like it was my call, but that’s not the full story. The bottom line is that she ghosted me. We had last spoke in August of 2024, and she was all set, according to her, to submit my book proposal to at least a dozen publishers whose she told me were eager to take a look. Next week, she said. For two months. Then, she stopped responding to my emails entirely.
I gave her a lot of grace. Several months worth, exactly. And then I sent her a polite email saying, hey, I guess this isn’t working out and I’ll be looking for new representation. But that last bit was kind of a lie, honestly. It should have said: “I’m going to spend the next nine months wondering whether I’m supposed to be a writer. At all. Thanks for the existential crisis you’ve put me in!”
So here I am. Two hundred pounds of what might appear to be a fairly put-together middle aged dude, who is actually on the Struggle Bus and headed nowhere in particular at a speed of about 1mph.
I keep telling myself that this is the beginning of a classic comeback story. That I’m going to figure out the new job I started in July and come up with a plan to get back into shape. That I’m going to email the book proposal to an acquaintance who offered to show it to their agent, and build a list of 20-30 I can submit it to. That the weight I can’t seem to shed is going to come off, or that maybe some light switch is going to flick on and help me be okay with it. That the only thing that will make me be a writer is if I simply sit down and write for crying out loud and so that’s what I’m gonna do.
I’ve spent a lot of time in the chair to understand all that. But all that time hasn’t gotten me to place where I’m actually doing it. Not yet, anyway.
Let’s be clear — I’m fine. The purpose of this missive isn’t to cause you worry. This newsletter has always been about complicating the male narrative. About the actual responses dudes have in our heads when a bro asks, “How are you?”
There have been some bright spots in addition to the struggles. So I’ll try to hit some of each as get after that whole doing writing thing here.
Until next time…