Over the last several months, I’ve had some revelations in regards to my path as a writer and storyteller that I’d like to share, now.
I have decided to share because, well, despite the overall uncanny nature of my individual journey, I can’t help but imagine there are probably some people out there who might find this relatable in one way or another. To those of you with big dreams—especially creative dreams that have clung to you since childhood—I hope in some way reading this might help you feel less alone.
Some years ago I believed I had completed and perfected the first novel of my epic, dark fantasy series. I believed that after tons of obsessive work and refinement, my baby was finally ready to share with the world. In no time I printed copies and sold them all over my college. I began racing down the path of achieving my dream career: to become a published, best-selling author. Feverishly, I checked all the boxes I thought I needed to check, such as creating a website and newsletter to promote myself. I was twenty-two years young, still in school and eager to break through the shiny red ribbon of some strange, conjectural finish line.
To be clear, I don’t really regret any of this. In fact, I’m proud of myself for what I did back then. Despite my mistakes, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with setting goals and lunging steadfastly toward one’s dreams. Even though I don’t regret it per se, I see now in retrospect that I was being blindly led by a dangerous mindset. I believed that if I didn’t immediately brand myself and start building some kind of career or artistic empire, my work would have no value. I believed that marketing it, selling it and distributing it would be the only way to make it matter—the only way to make it count. Though those are not inherently bad goals by any means, I understand now more than ever how wrong I was to let those things define my worth.
It would seem some part of me always knew in the back of my mind that my books weren’t ready; that due to the sheer validity of the story itself they would take far more time to perfect than I was willing to accept. Those who know me may find this hard to believe, but despite my eminent dream of becoming a best-selling author, I have only ever queried seventeen agents total. Yep. Seventeen. Why? Because something was always stopping me—even though I wanted so badly to believe I was completely prepared to start building my career in my twenties, a higher force seemed to insist otherwise. I’m glad I listened to that force.
Writing my series has never been a remotely ordinary experience for me. I suppose I’m not really sure how many other writers out there write the way I do, but it’s basically like channeling. Yes, I invent the words, descriptions, syntax, and how the sentences are strung together—but outside of that, I invent nothing. My characters are autonomous archetypes of the collective unconscious that filter through my personal unconscious and appear to me fully formed. I merely record what they choose to show me, and I must work to discover and uncover characters and plots that are pre-existing with utmost patience and care. All the while, I am given increasingly mind-blowing lessons about how my individual psyche connects to the collective psyche, oftentimes aligned with profound synchronistic events in my life. In other words, writing this series is not only a creative endeavour, it is it a deeply mystical endeavour as well that requires just as much surrender on my part as it does discipline.
Over quarantine, I was privileged enough to use my isolation as an opportunity to delve even deeper into that mystical endeavour than ever before. Without the pressures and distractions of the external world, I began to recover in that solitude and that silence the pure joy of creation itself that I’d unknowingly let fall to the wayside. I began writing and producing my third book at such a prolific degree I broke all my previous records. I found myself feeling like a child again, only better. Alongside that childlike freedom was the wisdom, knowledge and experience of an adult. I began rising at six o’clock in the morning, writing all day, sometimes even long into the night. With no limiting fears or nagging doubts, I channeled consistently and created in that time what I now consider my best work. I learned more about my story and characters in a few months than I had in years. I began to perceive deeper truths regarding its message that gave me epiphany after epiphany about its overwhelming vastness and sublimity. I became humbled in a way that is beyond words; humbled and passionately in love with the process.
Soon it became somewhat painfully clear to me that with all the new information I discovered, I’d have to largely edit, refine and enhance my first two books that I had pre-maturely printed and sold to friends, family and select events. I finally understood the story with far sharper clarity, and could see my relationship with it and my beloved muse in such a way that brought tears to my eyes. It dawned on me, then, that I was glad I wasn’t a best-selling author yet. I was glad I had only ever queried seventeen agents. If I had got picked up at any point, my first two books would have been put out on the market with unpolished information and underdeveloped themes. I had to face the truth, that for some reason this story was even grander than I could have ever imagined, and I needed to submit to that grandness.
It’s somewhat embarrassing that it took a literal quarantine for me to finally accept this truth, but what can I say. My desire to become a successful author ASAP was no small thing. There was a time I couldn’t walk into a bookstore without shedding a tear. There was a time I couldn’t bear to see all the published books on the shelves written by people who had managed to achieve the very thing I so desperately wanted—the very thing I coveted so severely that it made my heart ache. What if I never make it? I used to wonder. What if I fail? What if an agent and publisher never pick me up? What if I never inspire others with this story? How could I live with myself? How could I live knowing I had never achieved my dream? I was ridden with fear.
Well, never again.
Never again will I feel lesser than another author just because their book is on the market. Never again will I fear losing all my worth for not attaining publication or monetary success. Never again will I consider my work meaningless if it isn’t influencing a sizeable audience of devoted readers. Let me be clear, I’m not giving up on becoming a best-selling author, that’s not what this is about. I will always have that goal and I will continue working toward it every day.
This is about a revelation: I am already living my dream.
I already have it.
My truest dream has always been to completely devote myself to this story and write it for the sake of itself, to create and complete this series while living a uniquely magical experience alongside my muse—an experience I wouldn’t trade for the world. I have yielded now to the power of this thing, this beautiful, wonderful, precious thing that has already imbued my meager twenty-nine years of life with enough meaning for one thousand lifetimes. I know my novels will find and inspire whoever is meant to read them, be it tens of people or millions of people, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it inspires me. What matters is that I get it down on paper and give it all the time and attention it requires to make it the very best it can possibly be. I’m not saying all writers ought to feel this way about their work; this is just my personal revelation. Everyone’s path is different. The key is finding what truly works for YOU once you filter out all the noise. Well, okay, noise isn’t quite impactful enough, here. I’ll be frank: the key is finding what truly works for you once you filter out all the bull****.
That being said, I’ll wrap this up with the following sentiment: to anyone out there who needs to hear this, please don’t let a capitalistic society’s standards for artistic value ever degrade the sheer wonder and bliss of creation that inspired you in the first place. Yes, money is obviously important. Attaining financial independence, inspiring lots of people, successfully marketing your creations, etcetera—these are all fantastic goals to have. Just remember, if you ever find yourself feeling bored, stressed or tired in the face of that which once brought you joy, stop. If you ever find yourself succumbing to crippling fears of failure that hinder your progress, stop. Stop, and look deep within. Ask yourself, where is this stress coming from? Where are these fears coming from? Are they based in self-imposed burdens that have become enmeshed with cultural, societal or familial constructions? If so, clear it away. Listen to the silence until you hear your own voice or whatever inner voice first spoke to you and caused you to feel COMPELLED to create. No matter how cheesy this might sound right now, I promise if you look inside yourself you will find a way to reconnect with the catalyst that seized you in the beginning. I promise you will return to the divine spark of YOUR innermost desires that lay beyond all things.
To ignite a fire in others, you must first ignite that fire in yourself.
That is all. <3
-Madyson
Those who actually finished reading all this, thank you, haha. If you are a fellow creative facing any of these struggles, I hope I was able to help at least in some small way :)
