There was a time in my life when I actually didn’t want to publish a book. It wasn’t a time in my life when I wasn’t writing, because generally I am always writing. (There was a dark period when I didn’t write. We speak not of that period.)
But there was a time in my life when I felt like writing was the only thing I had that was making me happy. It was the only place where I was free of obligations to other people, of commitments, of being pulled in a million directions at once. I had countless demands from countless people in those days, but I could go home and I could write whatever I wished. And the characters weren’t terribly obedient-my characters never are, and I envy people who have obedient characters, the way I envy people whose hair does what they tell it to; nothing in my life is terribly obedient!-but somehow that bothered me less than all of the other people in my life I couldn’t control. They were always delightful to me, and I looked forward to spending time with them, and I wanted them to be mine, just mine, all mine, mine in my head and my heart. And I shared them with others-I am, as a writer, a compulsive sharer of my writing-but it was never a job, and if the writing rhythm fell off, or I couldn’t keep to a schedule, or I didn’t feel like writing something and instead wrote something else, then it was all good, it didn’t matter.
(This is, incidentally, why I fail at NaNo. I did NaNo during this time period, and I “won” NaNo, and I hated the thing I wrote during NaNo like nothing else I’ve ever written, and I’m sure it’s saved somewhere on my computer but I never looked at it again. The resentment I felt for having to sit and write that thing every night was epic. Which is weird, because, actually, when I’m in the mood, I can write 50,000 words in a couple of weeks, no problem. It was just having to write 50,000 words.)
So, anyway, when I decided to try to get a book published, I actually had mixed feelings. A part of me was like, “Well, if it never happens, that’s okay, I was never doing it to be published anyway, I was only ever doing it for me.”
We know how the story ends, which is that I got a book published. And to be totally honest? It has been the metaphorical dream come true. I have adored the experience, loved having my book on bookshelves, loved hearing from people who have read it. And I loved the editing process, loving working with my fabulous editor, who made the book SO MUCH BETTER, loved working with the entire team at Sourcebooks. But to also be totally honest? It did come to feel more like a job. A job I loved, but still a job. There’s so much more to writing a book than just writing a book, and all of that meant that it was so different from the act of writing as I’d known it. I enjoyed the process, and I have a better book now than I did because of it, but it was still just different. There was no mistaking the fact that it was no longer just me and my characters in my little bubble, doing whatever we liked.
I had heard rumors from other writers that this happens. That there’s a bit of culture shock that comes in the act of publication. That it takes a while to find your footing, coming from a world that had been so insular, into a world where there are suddenly others. And here’s where I have to credit, whole-heartedly, fanfiction for basically saving my writing life. Because I was always somewhat used to my writing world having other people in it, because I had all of you wonderful people, and, more importantly, I still always had a piece of writing that was never a job, was something I was just doing. I worried that publishing a book would make me lose my love for writing as a hobby, and the fact that there was always fanfiction on the side meant that never happened. When I was tired of working on my book, it wasn’t because I was tired of writing, it was because I wanted to write something else. The fanfiction flourished while editing was going on, and sometimes I felt guilty about that, but now, at the end of it, I feel mostly relieved and grateful, because it meant that what I did to unwind from writing was writing. And writing with no one in mind but me, and as a writer I think I just need that selfish little release there.
I have a book out there in the world now, and I was worried I would never have a good idea again, but I waited it out. I wrote thousands of words of Sherlock and Inception and practiced different voices and different tenses and then it all came back to me.
(And to be totally honest, I am not entirely sure that I haven't been writing original fiction all the time and calling it fanfiction to trick all of you. Like, I wrote thousands of words about an original character called Oliver and a story about a figure skater and a hockey player at the Olympics. And don't even get me started on the Inceptionfic. A part of me worries that the Inceptionfic is just "John and Sherlock hang out with people named Arthur and Eames." But, at the same time, I have this theory that ALL Inceptionfic is original fiction, because there's so little canon to glean from, and the Inception fandom has just all subconsciously decided on "Let's write stories about these characters with these characteristics," like some big writing class assignment or something, and they can be dreamsharing criminals or regular criminals or classical musicians, but it all doesn't matter because if you happen to like those characters you'll read the stories but in the end I'm not entirely sure that writing Inception isn't more about reading a lot of Inceptionfic first to absorb the fanon. Like, I feel like Sherlock AUs usually feel to me like they'd take a bit of effort to shed the Sherlock-ness, whereas Inception AUs frequently feel to me like they'd just have to change the names. Which is not to say one is better than the other--because clearly I'm passionately in love with both--just that I've been having these thoughts, and I probably have Anne Jamison's book FIC to blame.)
ANYWAY, I have had other people talking in my head for a while now, other people with stories to tell, and my fingers itch to sit down and tell those stories. And I am excited about it.
(It is, incidentally, probably no coincidence that so much of my recent burst of desire to write original fic corresponds to my reading of The Night Circus. HOW IS THAT BOOK SO BEAUTIFUL. HOW.)