This Novel is Dedicated to Anxiety

I'm not spiraling, you're spiraling

I’ve spent the last six months writing a book, and it has been simultaneously the most joyful and emotionally tumultuous experience of my life. In many ways, writing this book has brought out both my greatest strengths and my deepest insecurities. Most days, I vacillate between an immersive writer’s flow and a paralyzing fear that everyone will hate me—and my book.

If you’re new to my newsletter, here’s the quick TL;DR: I’m writing a contemporary romance novel about a woman discovering her strength and independence through a host of good, bad, and ugly experiences on the John Muir Trail. Think Wild meets an Emily Henry novel: flirty, fun, self-deprecating, with just the right amount of adventure.

Writing this book has allowed me to relive my 24 days on the John Muir Trail and process that experience in a whole new way. Some of my biggest takeaways from that hike—a major one being that the beauty of backpacking isn’t disconnection; it’s the depth of connection—wove their way into many of my plot’s sub-themes. I discovered I’m incredibly talented at writing dialogue, but mediocre at describing scenery. I learned that I overuse the word smirk and rely far too much on "brushing arms" to signal intimacy.

As someone without formal training in creative writing, calling this a learning curve feels like an understatement. But now that I’m (more or less) done with my second draft, the reality of having to figure out how to publish this thing is a daily stressor.

Writing and publishing are fully different beasts, as every publishing webinar I’ve attended has reminded me. Writing is emotional, frustrating, creatively freeing. Publishing is a hellscape. It’s not a meritocracy; it’s sales, PR, marketing, business, and self-promotion.

Thankfully, I’m still a few months out from having to start querying literary agents. Right now, I’m focused on solidifying my plot, refining weaker chapters, and clarifying character arcs—the fun stuff. But I’ve recently started letting people read my writing and, holy shit, I’ve never been more terrified. Handing someone a draft of your novel feels like ripping your heart out and asking them to inspect it. My friends and family have been supportive and encouraging, but my anxiety can’t help but suspect they’re lying or exaggerating.

I’m entering the phase where I need more readers—beta readers, as they call them—who will be completely honest and not spare my feelings. The thought makes my stomach churn.

In addition to writing, I’m still reading quite a bit, but it’s almost impossible not to compare my work to others'. I read Lovelight Farms by B.K. Borison in January and was floored by how her writing carried the reader along. Her book was beautifully descriptive, specific enough to evoke deep feelings, and there wasn’t a moment where I questioned word choice or plot. I left that book feeling both inspired and completely demoralized. Since then, I’ve struggled to read contemporary romance without falling into comparison, even though those books have undergone years of professional edits—and I’m only on my second draft. Rationally, I know my book can get there too. But it’s hard to envision.

In the moments when I feel most insecure, I remind myself: I wrote a fucking book. I’m doing it scared. I feel anxious because I care deeply about my writing. But it’s so easy for my brain to flip to the negative—that I’ll never be good enough to be published, that no one will want to read my book.

I want to feel proud of myself, and a lot of days I do. I want to receive feedback with warmth, not self-criticism. I want to celebrate myself even if I never get a literary agent or a publishing deal. Because I’m doing the damn thing—and little Mallory, the girl who spent hours on road trips furiously scribbling stories in the back seat, dreaming of becoming the next great American novelist, would be overflowing with pride that I wrote a whole book. I’m doing this for her.