A strange quiet has settled in since the book left my hands. I am agented now and my debut novel is on submission. This is the good part, isn’t it? The part where I am no longer yelling into the void alone and am grateful, telling people I have an agent the way friends might say they’re ‘seeing someone.’ It sounds promising. It suggests momentum. It gives hope. What it actually means is that a story I poured years of my life into, is being passed quietly from inbox to inbox while I pretend not to think about it. 

‘What should we do?’ I whisper to the large octopus, Mr John Snow, perched next to my writing desk. Its light pink and very white, and has these curly flapping arms that can completely go around me; a gift from my twelve year old. Mr Snow came home after the last documentary we watched together. My daughter was fascinated by them. An octopus could solve puzzles, navigate mazes, use coconut shells to build homes, think with its arms and taste with thousands of suckers. The king of multitasking.

‘What should we do?’ I refresh my email, as I steel myself for the wait. The dreaded wait- which I knew was coming, and the preparation- which I wasn’t prepared for. 

‘No one is truly interested in your story until a lot of people are’. I comprehend, I think. Editors want to see engagement. Publishers want to know you can bring readers with you. I nod to all the suggestions given, even though I don’t fully understand how to summon readers for a book that technically does not exist on page, yet. Like auditioning for a role I haven’t been cast in. Fellow authors shake their digital heads and say, this is how it works. You have to be loud before they decide whether you’re worth hearing. 

I am given perspective, told intelligent words: ‘No one is truly interested in your story until a lot of people are’. I comprehend, I think. Editors want to see engagement. Publishers want to know you can bring readers with you. I nod to all the suggestions given, even though I don’t fully understand how to summon readers for a book that technically does not exist on page, yet. Like auditioning for a role I haven’t been cast in. Fellow authors shake their digital heads and say, this is how it works. You have to be loud before they decide whether you’re worth hearing. 

‘Ok. I can do this. I simply need a plan.’ I seek help from friends and friend’s friends, who might be better equipped to answer my questions. They all say the same thing, about building an audience in advance. About acting like an accomplished author before I am allowed to be one. Proving I’m marketable enough to deserve a chance. Some days its overwhelming, some days I pretend that it is not. Everyone is doing it, I can do it too. 

So I try. Mornings and evenings and in between those, I open my socials, Instagram and threads. I see writers announce book deals and cover reveals, agent shoutouts and author gratitude posts that read like acceptance speeches. ‘I would definitely do the same if it ever happened to me.’ I say as I scroll further, tell myself this is fine, this is normal, this is how the industry works, this what I want. Then I post something myself, because I should. A thought about writing. A joke. Something. Anything.

I try to review someone else’s work, I am scared to. I know how tough it is to be there, where they are. The doubt creeps in. ‘How dare I, an unpublished writer, review someone who is well accepted in the literary circle.’ I hesitate and then… share pictures of the book in aesthetic pastel settings and keep my thoughts to myself. I wait, till someone likes and comments. A single friend, my sister and an aunt, I haven’t met her in years. Always the same three, they ‘heart’ all my posts. Yes, they care about me but do they care about my words? Is it worse than silence? I ignore these questions as I fumble with my posts.

The book stays on submission longer than I expect. Weeks stretch into months, its already been a year. Each email notification spikes my heart. Mostly, they are not the email. My editor asks me to be patient. She believes in the book and she believes in me. She had told me to be steady and unhurried early on even before we signed, she is a kind soul. Still I sigh and I wonder. I wonder if her silence means that she is guarding me from disappointment. Shielding me from all the rejections that stay in her inbox. “The story didn’t resonate…” “Loved the voice, but…” “Didn’t quite connect.” “Wishing you the best of luck elsewhere.” I have heard those before; haven’t we all.

I have developed an odd ability to ‘read’ a simple, ‘we are on submission’ written in Times New Roman to a chiller font creeping inside my skull, screaming ‘the world is coming to an end’. Run!

Online, I continue the charade, like someone with forward momentum. I share what I’m reading. I comment on other writers’ posts. I am supportive, effusive, present. I refresh my Instagram. I refresh my emails. I refresh my sense of self.

Once, writing was a private act where I lost myself in worlds that I made, my own treasure islands of beauty and adventure. Now, I am told, one must submit stories that will gain traction, spike interest, create a buzz. Something to justify my presence. I’m supposed to be visible but not look wanting, ooze confidence but not be arrogant. Be relatable and impressive at the same time. Constantly connect with my future audience, simultaneously managing to write what people want, preferably in a beautiful setting while clicking pictures of my journey. 

Post, refresh, post. 

So many things, opposite things to do. John Snow stares. Maybe I should give up on being human. What I need is to become an octopus. Intelligent beings those. They change colour and texture to match whatever environ they’re dropped into. Their multiple arms, each operates semi-independently, as they master their craft. I have watched videos of them squeezing through impossibly small openings. They can do it all. I hold Mr Snow tightly as its arms flap around me. I find this comforting, though I’m not sure why. I cannot be an octopus, I just can’t.

I start to wonder if happiness will require stepping back from the constant self-surveillance, the multitasking. If I’ll have to choose a smaller, quieter version of this life to protect whatever part of me wanted to write before anyone was watching. Are the watchers even watching or am I still shouting in the void? I don’t know, the answers don’t show up, even when I refresh.

If success, should it come, will it ask for more than I can safely give. If choosing peace means accepting that fewer people may ever listen… 

… and whether that’s a loss I will grieve, or a freedom that I need.

(A personal essay previously published in The Adelaide Literary Magazine.)

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