I have been a published author for just over a year, and I thought it was a good time to reflect on how that experience has matched up to the dreams of being in this position that I clung so tightly to for so many years. It prompted me to think about the highs and the lows, and whilst this year has been (for obvious reasons) a strange and unusual one – definitely not the one I spent all those years dreaming of – I think certain aspects of the journey would have been the same, Covid or not. 

            There have, of course, been disappointments directly related to having a book come out in a pandemic. Cancelled celebrations and events, closed bookshops and sales most definitely affected as a result. On the other hand, there have been a few unexpected upsides, most notably, having bonded with authors on-line going through a similar experience in a way I doubt would have happened had we not been in this awful situation. I have a feeling we will all be friends for a very long time. Also, I’ve had the opportunity to appear at on-line festivals which I am sure I wouldn’t have been invited to if they were physical events. 

            But there have been many disappointments along the way too. We all dream of having a best-seller and logically know that that is very unlikely, especially for a debut in a pandemic, with closed bookshops and when nobody has heard of you as an author. But still the little ticking brain hopes against hope that that will happen anyway, so of course, when it doesn’t, the disappointment kicks in. Which neatly leads me into the whole goal-shifting conundrum. 

            Why do we do it? I think we all do, to a greater or lesser degree, and maybe on one level, it is a good thing. If we simply sat back and basked in the achievement of our goals, perhaps we would never strive to venture further. But the problem is that it means we are rarely satisfied. We are so busy looking at what else is tantalisingly possible we forget, at least I do, to look back and think, wow, look what I’ve managed to do. I think this applies as much to non-writing life as to writing, but I think in the rarefied world of publishing, it is somehow amplified. 

            When writing my debut, People Like Us, I remember thinking I will be happy if I just finish the novel. I thought I would be happy if I considered it good enough to one day show another person. Of course, that soon moved on to, wouldn’t it be amazing if this book were good enough to be published? Perhaps it might even be good enough to get me an agent? Getting an agent was for at least two years (when I was in the thick of rejections) the ONLY target I had. What happened after that was almost irrelevant. But then I DID get an agent (and danced with ridiculous happiness around the kitchen – still my top favourite moment I think) and I wanted the next thing – a publishing deal. I will be ecstatic even if I get a tiny one, I thought, with no advance. Just the thought of anyone wanting to publish it will be enough to satisfy me. 

            But I achieved MUCH more than that. The book has been published in thirteen territories. Something which was beyond my wildest dreams. It has also been shortlisted for two major literary prizes – the RSL Christopher Bland prize, 2021 and the RNA Historical Novel of the Year Award, 2021. Surely, I should be ecstatic!

            But although I have been pleased, of course I have, I’ve also discovered, very much to my surprise, that I have been far from ecstatic for much of the time. In fact, I have, in all honesty, been miserable and disappointed for at least some of the time. Logically, this is ridiculous, and I feel horribly ungrateful which makes me feel even worse. However, I’ve come to realise that this is simply the result of my brain doing its goalpost shifting and instead of feeling happy with where I’ve got to, the ungrateful organ is looking forward to the next thing which I haven’t yet achieved. Selling film rights. Selling more foreign rights. Seeing piles of my book prominently displayed on a table in Waterstones, rather than just having a single copy tucked away somewhere on the bottom shelf (if I’m lucky). Becoming a best seller. Winning a prize rather than simply being shortlisted for one. But I also now know that even if I do achieve those things, they won’t make me happy because my annoying brain will go and shift the goalposts yet again and be onto the next seemingly unreachable target. 

            So, as I reflect on this past year, I am determined to make sure that I take the time each day to cast my eye over the beautiful books on my bookshelf which have my name on the spine, to feel a little pride and allow myself a metaphorical pat on the back. Every time I receive a message from a reader who has read and enjoyed my book or left a review, for which I am hugely grateful, I will be pleased that it is my work that has given enjoyment to someone else. Taking the time to do that, I am finding, does make me happy. I shan’t stop striving to create the very best books I can, but going forward, I also recognise this is truly the only part I can control. The rest will have to take care of itself, wherever those pesky goalposts land up.