IT'S A BOOK!

I am proud of the work I've done. I'm not afraid to say that.

Earlier this week, I hit what feels like one of the bigger milestones of my career as a writer. I’ve done it twice before, but this time it feels monumental which is ironic, because the milestone is handing in the final draft of my third book, The Privilege to Feel.

With Maid, I wasn’t necessarily in the dark on the publication process, but I also didn’t know I could ask questions. I didn’t know what questions to ask, either. It’s crazy to think that my first book deal was almost ten years ago on my youngest’s birthday of June 16, 2016. Wow. I have to pause on that for a minute. I started working on the book proposal for Maid about eleven years ago. I began working on the proposal for what would become my second book a few months after Maid was published. My book deal for what would become Class was finalized in January of 2020. I began working on a proposal for my third book on an airplane while I was on book tour for Class and sold it in June of 2024. Book three will be released sometime in the beginning of 2027.

Each of those milestones had some element to them that was overwhelming or confusing, and nearly all of them were completely encased in this pressure to keep up an impossible amount of momentum. There was never time or space to sit with an accomplishment. To dwell on it would be unheard of. I could take in applause, or have a moment of awe over seeing my book on display in a store, but there was never a time to stop, revel, or even marvel at what I had accomplished, and to feel pride in that. I didn’t feel like I had permission to.

There was no immediate feeling of pride. I had to wait for book reviews to tell me if I had written something good enough to be proud of. My friend Olivia Howell, who co-founded Fresh Starts Registry, articulated this via text to me recently in a way that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about:

“We are not allowed to celebrate ourselves or be proud of our own accomplishments, and so then somebody else is writing the narrative of our accomplishments for us.”

This book of essays I wrote, titled The Privilege to Feel, is about focusing inward, sitting with your feelings, and honoring them in away that also opens doors for compassion. I have said many times that writing is not a form of therapy for me. It is not cathartic. If anything, it is the opposite. It is not enjoyable for me to dwell on and live in the past, or to chew on traumatic events to figure out how turn them into art. One of the essays in this book is about my divorce that I am currently still in the thick of, and it took four revisions before I could make sense of what it was about. I honestly believe I didn’t truly have the meaning of that essay, and to some extent the whole entire book, until the night before I handed in the final draft. Then it all hit me at once and I couldn’t stop reading the closing paragraphs and scenes and, well, fell in love.

To estimate how many hours I have spent over the last two and half years, thinking about, mentally planning, and actively writing is impossible. I wrote most of the second half of the book at the beginning of this year, and barely made my final, already-extended-three-times deadline on March 1st by submitting a draft so rough and blown through that I hadn’t returned to read it myself. Once I had my editor’s notes on that, revisions have been four months of ten to twelve hour days. In the last two weeks, I have read my book in its entirety, start to finish, four times. By the time I emailed the final draft to my editor, I had a deep, unshakable sense of pride. I printed out the book and put it in a purple binder. I carried it around for the rest of the day, cradled in my arms, like a worn, well-loved paperback, and my twelve year old took pictures of me hugging it.

Finishing my first two books was not a moment of pride. No, I was terrified of public opinion. I anxiously waited for reviews that offered stars like a kid is granted for doing their chores without asking. I feared Goodreads and Amazon reviews and public discourse. I know it sounds insane to say this, but I was not proud of my first book until Barack Obama chose to include it on his 2019 Summer Reading List, two and a half years after I finished the final draft. Until that happened, I was overwhelmed with feelings of a local writing community who looked down at traditionally published, commercial books. I thought I didn’t deserve the success because it had all happened so fast, and had been too “easy.”

Almost nothing about writing The Privilege to Feel was easy. I sold the book three weeks before my beloved dog died and my marriage blew up completely, with a new explosion happening every couple of weeks. I wrote through it all. I have been referring to this book as “A Beast” and the writing process as “brutal.” I worked so, so hard to make all of it beautiful.

My book posing with its emotional support throw pillows.

What’s unique to this book, though, is the autonomy I had over the content. Sure, I had to follow what was proposed, but it was written through collaboration with my editor, and I came up with the content on my own. No one told me what I needed to write about, how I should present it, or where I needed to create a point that was either universal or tied everything up into a pretty bow. Pressure from the sales and marketing department will always be there, but my editor trusted my ability, and I learned to trust myself. All of that provided a shield to prevent worries about possible bad public reaction and shitty sales from leaking into the writing process. I was allowed, essentially, to take the time to figure it out for myself.

I am thrilled and extremely proud to say that I did that. I reached conclusions, meaning, and purpose in ways that after I wrote them I couldn’t stop going back to read them again. I did not do this in a void, or an empty room, alone. I had friends who patiently sat with me while I digested the content, some of it while it was still happening. A handful of them read early drafts and offered feedback. I leaned on Peternelle van Arsdale in the last two revisions after I still felt like I was flailing in this mess of pages, like a fitted sheet I couldn’t figure out how to tuck into itself and fold. All of this helped create a book I have a deep love and admiration for.

If people take to the internet for their rants and criticisms or what-have-you, they cannot take that feeling of accomplishment away from me. I worked fucking hard. They cannot take that away from me in attempts to discredit or I don’t even know what people are actually trying to do by giving a one-star or super negative review other than be mean. But this time, I’m not fearful. The stakes aren’t lower but maybe my skin is a little thicker. Maybe it’s my age, or the fact that I have been doing this job for more than ten years.

I have spent the majority of the day writing this in the same manner that I wrote my third book. Both of my children are in my immediate orbit, telling me funny jokes, asking when I plan to go grocery shopping, and needing me to help with forms for school next year and plans with friends. I have written between sending texts to my kid’s therapist, calling the college I’m attending in a couple of months to submit paperwork, and emailing my divorce attorney. All the while, I am over-caffeinated, mildly hungry, avoiding laundry, and could probably benefit from a long, hot shower and some time off. Every so often I have either a sinking feeling of dread, an urge to research or ask about something I just thought about, or a sense of calmness washes over me and says “You’ll be fine. It’s going to be okay.” Wash, rinse, repeat. Typical work day as a single mom.

Over the last few years, my therapist has made a point to identify moments where I show confidence. They’re so rare that they usually come out in a surprising moment of clarity. This experience I’ve had in the last week of finishing my book resulted in the first time I have true feelings of confidence in the end result. There is some trepidation there, of course, as I am a woman who mainly writes about parenting in poverty and am often dehumanized for that because of judgments and criticism on my actions and behavior, and additionally because of the amount of success I have had in my career as an author. But I have never felt proud of a book. I have never loved it. I have never finished writing it knowing that I worked hard and no matter what critics say, they cannot take that away from me.

I keep returning to what Olivia said. How, in the past, I have waited for external validation and praise to allow me to feel pride in the work I have done. I have spent the last two and a half years working on a book that brings the focus inward to reach down and gently bring the darkest parts of my life into the light to feel warmth and love as a way of redemption. I hope it helps others reckon with their own things in their pasts they have kept hidden, and to love that version of themselves, too.

Until next time.

xoxo,

-step.