I’ve Published Twenty Books, Here’s What I Know

An Essay by Madeleine Roux

There’s a lot of speculation about authors who write books quickly, speculation that I’ve always found odd, borderline insulting. It’s nobody’s business, but I’ve always written quickly, in extreme, sometimes unhealthy, obsessive bursts to outrun and outsmart the self-doubt and mental illness that has affected me my entire life. I’m guessing some of you can relate. It’s the way I know how to do business, so that’s how the business gets done. And honestly? I can’t remember the last time I wondered how long it took an author to write the book I was enjoying. I mean, I don’t care if it took them ten days or ten years, I’m just pleased their imagination dances in harmony with mine. I’m relieved they took the time to create something. Because creation is hard. This job is hard. Really hard. Impossible? Occasionally. I’ve had to rewrite entire books in a matter of months to fulfill an edit. I’ve had to just plain write first drafts in a matter of months, because that was the time allotted. I’ve worked through severe illness, debilitating depression coupled with ADHD, through breakups and traumas, through devastating loss. On the worst day of your life, someone will be sure to DM and let you know your book sucks ass. You will be the lone woman on panels, constantly ignored and condescended to. You will have a launch event to promote your book and the host will interrupt to talk about male authors he obviously wishes you were. Someone will raise their hand in the middle of your panel and ask for your number. It will get weird, exhausting, and numbing.

This job requires a tremendous amount of fortitude. It paradoxically asks that you remain a sensitive lil bean, open to the world and your own emotions, while also demanding an adamantine shell to survive it.  More than once I’ve wanted to walk away from it, just disappear somewhere and open a retirement ranch for senior chihuahuas, never to be perceived again. So, why continue? Why write books 21, 22, and so on? There’s a line in the new Critical Role book that I’m proud of, it goes: To venture out, that is the mandate of the soul.

Try. Go. Walk out the door. Go to the desk. Jot down that idea, follow it, see where it goes. Venture. Fail. Do it again.

There’s more venturing to do, in my imagination and in this career. Joy and rage still howl to be let out. And there are readers, wonderful readers, to keep entertaining or to eventually meet. There are a dozen moments of catharsis, light, and pride for every moment of frankly unbelievable bullshit. You start to recognize the same readers in your mentions, and grow fond of them, looking forward to their comments and likes. You receive kind, curious emails seeking advice. You meet incredible people running the same hard race and you learn from their wisdom and grace. You make lifelong friends. Someone you idolize will ask for a blurb, and your heart will turn into a thousand singing senior chihuahuas. You will work with editors and copy editors and PR folks that will stun you with their creativity. You will listen to audiobook performers bring your words to life in wholly unexpected ways. A parent will approach you with their kid at a signing and tell you Asylum was the first book their child read, and now they love reading. All those experiences and moments expand your heart until it’s so big that it’s ready to soak up more rage and joy, and barf it back out into the world behind a hard cover.

Maybe most importantly, you will sit quietly at your desk, weeping over a story that you’ve finally finished, filled to bursting with all the fears and hopes of a new parent. You will write THE END, and then, the next day, open a fresh Word doc and do the whole hard thing over again.

I’ve published twenty books. I am so damn proud. And yet, the work has hardly begun.