To all the stories I’ve written before

Cutting me open and healing me fine

It wasn’t just shelving TSATS. It was shelving the hopes and dreams surrounding TSATS. It was acknowledging that, while TSATS was the book I needed to write, it wasn’t the book I needed to publish.

The past few months have been an exercise in reframing “wasted time” as good and necessary. I worked on TSATS for a little under two years. It taught me about writing. More importantly, it taught me about myself. It clarified my visions of a career in publishing and reminded me that joy is paramount. I don’t want to wrestle a story into submission. I don’t want to be miserable all the time. Writing can be hard, but it should be fun, too. It should be life-giving.

I took several months off after shelving TSATS. Part of it was overwhelm: I was so focused on querying that, without a mostly finished manuscript, I had no idea what to do with myself. What was I going to work on next? Did I even want to be a writer? I bounced between projects, trying to find the story that would light me up for the first time in years.

It was a struggle. I felt like a failure of a human being; at the very least, I felt like the world’s most embarrassing writer. I told myself it was a slump, that I would get over it in time, but spring turned to summer and nothing changed. I wasn’t just struggling.

I was stuck.

I did, in fact, get over it. I crafted a new story, one of princesses and scoundrels and a very scary wood. (I am nothing if not predictable.) I took my time, analyzing every story decision, plotting and replotting until the pieces fell into place. I was determined. More than that, I was stubborn. I would write my best book yet, and by God, I would have the time of my life doing it.

Drafting the first chapter was hell. Then I remembered how to write. I decided that, actually, writing is fun, and maybe I need to lighten up a little if I’m going to make it as a multiply marginalized author in the publishing industry. I forgot about TSATS. I let myself sink into the sweetness of a fresh start.

Then life happened. My body threw a fit, and I gave myself permission to put writing on the backburner. I didn’t open Scrivener. Instead, I set about redesigning my entire life, because there’s nothing like an organized Notion workspace that screams summertime sweetness.

I didn’t consciously choose to transfer shelved books from Notion, where they’ve been living for years, to individual Scrivener files. It just sort of happened.

A highly simplified version of my projects database, filtered to only show writing projects.

I wanted to rediscover my love of writing. I wanted to honor what WANING CRESCENT and THE SAINT AND THE SPIDER gave me — which was so, so much — before placing them gently to one side. Those stories will always be a part of me. I have every intention of revisiting them someday. But right now, it’s time for something new.

I started with outlines. Beat sheets. Half-finished edit plans that barely saw the light of day. Deleting items in Notion is addicting. Then I tackled my archives: tens of thousands of words that comprise the earliest drafts of WC.

There’s the Star Wars draft, complete with a totalitarian government and a grungy rebel base. Then there’s the Doctor Who draft — I was in college at the time, so I didn’t bother coming up with originality, using the Eleventh Doctor as a placeholder for the character that would eventually become Jacen Rand. There’s the magic draft, which I’m pretty sure I scrapped three-fourths through NaNoWriMo, and then there’s the final draft, somehow managing to combine elements from the stories preceding it.

The writing is terrible. The plot is nonexistent. But buried under the grime is the glitter of something else.

Rereading old writing is like looking in the mirror. You see yourself: the current version of you, with the laugh lines and the acne scars and the bump on your chin that you wish was a dimple. But you also see the past versions of yourself. You see the five-year-old holding hands with the 15-year-old, who is scanning the horizon for a glimpse of you, 25 and thriving, or so you hope.

Each of those drafts is a version of myself. The Doctor Who draft: 19 and heartbroken, waiting for an an alien to show up in a blue phone box and take her away. The Star Wars draft: 24 and learning what it means to live according to your values in a world that punishes difference and rewards cruelty.

I’ll be honest. I’m not sure what the magic draft version of me was on. I like my pop culture references, but even I can acknowledge when I’ve gone overboard.

The final draft: 26 and still waiting for someone to take her away. Living in accordance with her values, even when it hurts. Rediscovering her love of pop culture and refusing to be ashamed of it. It all fits together. It’s all me. And it’s what TSATS was missing. I was so intent on writing for the market that I poured all my trauma into it — and none of my joy.

Writing AITG is like looking in the mirror. Like seeing all the different versions of myself, standing in a line, wide-eyed and hopeful when they look to the horizon. Like rereading old work and feeling so much affection for 19-year-old Brianna, writing and waiting and wishing for a change. Not to mention 24-year-old Brianna, braving the wilderness of her own beliefs.

Not to mention 26-year-old Brianna, putting pen to paper, showing up and up until the work is done.

I want to take her by the hand. To tell her that, every time I write, I invoke the version of myself that dreamt an entire story into being, one of hope and wonder and a black cat named Skywalker (yes, that Skywalker). I want to hold her close and promise that, no matter what, she is with me always. Every story. Every plot point and character arc. Every period and comma and exclamation point — it’s all for her.

My Notion is smaller now. Slimmer. Shelved books are, for the first time, on a shelf, instead of rattling around in my skull like a loose pebble.

My updated projects database. Pretty pastels spark joy.

Writing TSATS wasn’t a waste of time. It helped me remember — who I was, yes, but also who I want to be. The 28-year-old is an amalgamation of those who came before her, just like the book she’s writing is in conversation with all the stories she’s loved before.