Daring Not-So-Greatly
on dreams and disappointments.
Exactly eight years ago, my middle grade novel was scheduled to go to auction.
This was something I’d wanted for as long as I could remember — since the days when, clad in an oversized CATS: the Musical sweatshirt worn as a nightgown, I’d staple several sheets of construction paper together, slap on a cover and a tagline, and try to sell it to my parents. And now, several decades later, my dream was coming true.
There were seven confirmed bidders, including every major publishing house at the time. The auction was set for Wednesday, November 9, 2016, which was also the day after the U.S. presidential election.
The agents handling the book felt it was perfect timing — a book centered on three entrepreneurial girls, sold in the wake of electing the first woman president. What could go wrong?
I remember the conference room where they shared this plan, all frigid air and fluorescent lighting, remember questioning if the goosebumps spreading up my arms were the product of corporate ambiance, or some other, prescient sense of knowing. I can still recall the expressions on everyone’s faces when I posed the question no one wanted to hear, let alone answer.
“What if it goes the other way?”
A publishing hotshot said he had just spoken to a political hotshot that very morning. He’d seen the polls, the facts, the writing on the wall. “There’s no chance,” he said, waving his hand with the unsinkable confidence of an overpaid, taller-than-average white man. “Not a chance in hell.”
The rest, of course, is history.
As it happened, no one went into the office that day. Communication trickled in from interested editors, but it lacked the fast-bidding, hot-potato energy that typically drives an auction. The dream deflated. Yet in the grand scheme of what stretched before us, it hardly mattered.
The book did eventually sell, for which I was grateful. I focused on that instead of the what-if’s, the visions of how things might’ve gone if variables had been different. Once the contract was signed, I hardly thought of it again. Until this week.
I’ve been reflecting, for obvious reasons. And ugh.
One can try. One can toil. One can work toward something for years, pour their soul into it, take every actionable step to ensure its chance of success…and still find it squelched due to circumstances beyond their control.
Perhaps you know the feeling.
Once again, I am reminded of how little influence I have over the world, the landscape, and at times, my own little sphere. But I am the keeper of this space, this offering that has come to mean so much. And I do not take that for granted.
I’ve tried to write to you 3,472 times these past few days, stalled by my emotions and the ever-present chorus of What can I possibly say? Who am I to add to the din? As I sat with this, I recognized the fear for what it was. I saw that just as I’ve been afraid to hope these past few months, I’ve also been scared to play big, to step into the arena only to find it closed for maintenance. To this I say, no more.
Though my dreams may get shat on — though our collective dreams may be under assault via a Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs-level deluge of poop from the sky — I will not let them be extinguished. I will not be numb. I will not play small. I will not give up.
Everywhere I look, there’s a hot take, another theory, analysis, or perspective. (And a bevy of heated comments.) You won’t find that here. I cannot profess to know the shape of your personal circumstances. I will not tell you how to feel (or not), how to react (or not), what course of action is best for you. But I will say that whatever you’re feeling is valid.
I will also reiterate that you are welcome here, in the full scope of your humanity. No matter who you are or how you identify, who you love or how you worship, however you move through the world. The only thing not welcome is hate.
I collected tarot cards for years before I understood much about them. They were beautiful and evocative, but their messages evaded me. What made me fall in love with the tarot — what helped it click into place — wasn’t some mystical, esoteric angle. It was the realization that the cards reflect universal aspects of the human experience.
There is some disagreement around tarot’s beginnings, but it’s safely been around since the mid-fifteenth century. (Which makes it a hell of a lot older than a not-quite 250-year-old nation.) I welcome the reminder that the human condition — that dance of hope and love and grief and wonder, aboard a spinning mystery suspended in a seemingly boundless sky — has been happening for longer than we can fathom.
This is why each Sunday Letter ends with a card, as a source of reflection and connection. They are a bridge between past, present, and future. They are a bridge to one another.
Three years ago, this newsletter began as a place to seek the magic in the mundane, the light in the darkness. And this feels as relevant as ever.
Though I can’t control much, I can promise to be here every Sunday, with whatever glimmers I can capture. (Midweek letters will also resume this fall, when there is something worth sharing — I’m conscious of your inbox and the relentless noise.)
May we find solace, inspiration, and connection in the days ahead. But most importantly, may we find each other.
As always, thank you for reading. x
Card of the Week
Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.
This week’s card bids you to take care of yourself.
It has a lot more to say, but I’ll put that part right up top so it doesn’t get lost or glossed over.