The Story Is Enough.

I am a fangirl of old. I don’t just like stories; I immerse myself in them.

• I have written songs and poetry and stories in response to and about the work of other writers.
• I have made playlists for my favorite characters and planned themed menus for watch parties and gone in costume to midnight showings.
• I have spent hours discussing a single story-moment.
• I have even found myself praying for fictional characters accidentally. (I was going for a run at some point during my first readthru of Mockingjay, and I was still holding out hope that Cinna might show up, bloodied but alive, and I was running and listening to music and praying and thinking about Cinna . . . and it all merged together for a moment. *le sigh*)

That is all well and good. I enjoy being a fangirl. My closest friends are those who can enter into Story deeply with me. ’Tis vital for soul-soothing AND soul-growth.

However.

I recently had a personal awakening of the not-so-pleasant-but-necessary-and-ultimately-good variety. To wit: I realized that I had made that level of fangirl-response the goalpoint for my own work. As in, unless my book has a) universal appeal (everyone is talking about it) and b) universal hook (everyone can’t STOP talking about it), it is not a good book. 

Or, rather, it’s not good enough. 

To quote Bartok, “This can only end in tears.” 

I cannot control how the world will respond to my book-children. I cannot make anyone care about them as much as I do, or as much as I care about the work of other writers. I can only bring my literary offspring into the world, mold them into the best possible versions of themselves, and then send them out. 

That thrill — the joy of creating, and of telling the story only I can tell — has to be enough. 

I cannot wait for massive fandom to arise to prove my book’s legitimacy. In fact, I cannot wait for ANY positive response — though those messages do come, every so often. And I am grateful for them; unspeakably grateful. But I cannot depend on them to prove the worth of these stories, nor of myself as a writer. I must not. 

I cannot let my worth as a person depend on my self-perceived worth as a writer. I MUST not.

Instead, I must let go.

I must release that dream of making a cameo appearance in a film version of my books, like Leigh Bardugo got to do in Shadow and Bone. I must accept the fact that I probably won’t get a moment like Leigh did; when, dressed in a purple kefta, she hugged Alina Starkov — embracing both the actor and the character, and also simultaneously embracing the gift that her writing had given the world . . . while it somehow, mysteriously, remained completely her own.

If I can unclench my grasping fingers’ death-grip on that dream, I believe — I must believe — that my hands will then be open to receive a better dream. To receive the gift of the Story itself: the gift which, howsoever the world responds (or doesn’t), will somehow, mysteriously, remain completely my own.

So, today, we mourn. It’s okay to mourn the death of a dream. But this was a dream that needed to die. 

And I believe — I must believe — that its ashes will fertilize my soul-soil, preparing me to bear better dream-fruit in the newly-cleared space.

So whatever your dream is — whatever art you’re creating — remember:

The Story is enough, my friends.

Take heart.