So you want to quit writing

I was talking to my agent a few months ago, telling her (again) how I was restructuring my current book, a memoir about relationships. It’s a conversation we’ve had at least six times since I began writing it in mid-2024.

“Is this normal?” I asked her. (The answer, about writing, like sobriety, is always yes—but I have to ask it anyway.)

“Laura, yes,” she said. “Usually it’s the second book that does this to authors. But your second book was so different that this is basically your second, even though it’s technically your third.”

It’s true. Although Push Off from Here was extremely challenging for me to write, it was hard because that kind of writing (prescriptive, research-heavy) is not all that enjoyable to me. I was also writing it in the heaviest pandemic years (2021-2022) and my system, the world, was fried. But this one? I knew it would be rough waters, emotionally. I expected to get stuck here and there. But I never thought I’d run into the kind of crushing insecurity, self-doubt, fear, and confusion I’ve experienced. I never thought I’d write my way into so many holes. I never thought I’d fantasize about quitting the whole project—not just the book, but being a writer altogether—continuously, for years.

I’m sure some of you reading this and thinking: Really? She didn’t know it could be like that?

I did and I didn’t.

I’ve experienced levels of all these things—doubt, insecurity, etc.—of course I have. Writing is hard, and book writing is a herculean thing. But I’m still pretty new at it ten years in. And either because of the relative newness, or the luck of my circumstances, or the way I caught wind of a certain moment in culture, or my tendency toward optimism and possibility, or whatever, it had not yet broken me completely. I’d struggled hard, but I’d never felt like, You know, maybe this just isn’t for me.

Well, reader: we have arrived. We’ve been here for a while now. And as brutal as it’s been, there’s some small part of me, a tiny voice that has, at times, whispered through the worst of my despair: Maybe this is good.

David Whyte says of our relationship to work, if we’re lucky enough to do work we care about deeply, that there is “no sincere path that any human being can take without having their heart broken.” When I’ve remembered this and can pull myself out of the certainty that my suffering is special for a fraction of a second, it’s a salve. A bitter salve, but a salve. Like I experienced in getting sober, and my last relationship ending, there is an initiation in burning up completely.

Today, I’m only offering some solidarity, if you’re in the heartbreak place or thereabouts. Next week, I’m going to share a list of things that have helped (and are helping) me move through: resources, books, teachers, practices. I’m also going to announce a new offering to support writers—it’ll be part of the paid subscription here, not something extra—and I’m very excited about it.

In the meantime, we’re having a conversation over on chat about our upcoming Second Sunday gathering on July 12, where I’ll be talking about writing again. I’ve asked you all to weigh in on topics you’d like me to cover in general, but specifically about writing. Second Sundays are for paid subscribers, and you can become one below.

Love,
Laura

» If you need sobriety support, The Luckiest Club offers 50+ meetings each week + programs to meet you where you are.

» Boston area folks: I’ll be in conversation with Lauren Hough about her new memoir, MONSTER OF A LAND, tomorrow, Tuesday June 30, at Porter Square Books. RSVP here.

» Join me for our monthly community gathering, Second Sundays, on July 12. July topic: WRITING AND THE INNER CRITIC.