This is my last post for Writer Unboxed as a regular contributor. As I write this, I feel sad, nostalgic, and grateful, grateful, grateful.
Aside from a single guest post in 2011, I began at WU in 2013 with an every-other-month column about Twitter. Three years later, we opened my topics to The World Beyond Twitter to save my sanity, and I spent two years posting about all kinds of things, from query letters to facing fears and more.
My plate just kept getting more and more full, though, and even every other month began to feel like too much. Sweet Mama T offered for me to post less frequently rather than leaving altogether, so I stepped it down to four posts a year, and then three posts a year, and now I’m at two posts a year and somehow I’ve still managed to miss one of them. (The pandemic and a toddler ate my homework.)
After seven and half years (!!!) of writing for this beautiful community, it’s painfully clear to me that I can’t keep WU on my writer’s plate at this point in my life. In the past few years I’ve had to cut back lots of not-fiction-writing writing tasks. I stepped down from leading my local critique group. I stopped webmastering for the Poetry Society of Texas. I’ve let dues expire, said no like it’s my job, and I haven’t updated my own author blog since April. Now I’ve dragged myself kicking and screaming to the acknowledgement that WU, too, is beyond my capacity at this point in my life. Even just twice a year.
This is not a farewell post, though. (At least not only.) This has prompted me to think about a larger topic that, I think, all writers might face if we write for any length of time: the ebb and flow.
How on earth do we accept the larger pattern of things when we can’t see it yet? And I’m not talking about fate or destiny here—though I imagine believing in those things might make it a bit easier—but rather the simple fact that every life has a shape in the end. Very few single days or single decisions change the whole shape, but rather build it up over time.
Take my AIS mantra, for example. (Butt in chair is a slightly nicer way of saying it.) You show up at the keyboard every day that you’re supposed to. That simple. You just do it.
Until you get sick, or your cat gets sick, or your depression overtakes you, or you get a different job to cover the bills, or your yard floods, or your air conditioning breaks, or your computer decides to start automatic updates on the day your column is due, or a dictator overthrows your country, or or or…
Life changes. Many of us, myself included, fight that, but it is the nature of existence. Nothing ever stays the same, so fighting it is futile. How, though, can we even begin to accept that with a modicum of grace?
I certainly don’t have the answer(s) all figured out, but there is one thing that has helped me many times: pretend it’s twenty years later. That might sound simple, but it really does help me look at the big picture more authentically.
It’s easier to see how this works when you try looking back. Look into the past and see phases and periods in your writing life that are so distant now that you can describe them simply. Back when I was putting my poetry manuscript together. Back when I was with my first agent. Back when I had to file that grievance complaint to get paid. Etc. When I fired my first agent, I thought my career was over. No exaggeration. I really did. The depth of doubt and pain in those months was excruciating as I lived it. Six years later (!) I smile sympathetically at that me and pat her on the back. We were just getting started.
In six years from now—or twenty—will I look back on this chaotic phase in my life and think of it as ‘back when I had taken a break from volunteering and taking on extra things’? Or will I look back even further at the time ‘back when I used to be able to do so much’? You know, from twenty years in the future where I’m standing looking back, it’s either way. It’s okay if I miss it, if I’m relieved, if I’m sad, nostalgic, or grateful, grateful, grateful.
Because letting go of one thing is how we make space for something else. Whether they’re new (toddler), gaining more priority (drafting time), or simply allowing for more breathing space overall (pandemic), to remove one thing from our life is to give permission for others. Giving permission is nice because life is going to take it anyway. Change is inevitable, and so we may as well do our best to embrace it.
For some of us, like me, that may never come easily, but it’s still worth aiming for. You never know. Maybe the me twenty years from now will have it down, glad I faced it ‘back when the world turned upside down’. We’ll see.
In the meantime, I do want to say thank you. I’ve been around so seldom here that I’m sure it’s very much like saying Hello, goodbye, but still. This community has meant so much to me (and will continue to, from a new place in my life). So thank you, Therese, for having me here all these years. Thanks to alumnus Nina Badzin for recommending me back then. Thanks to my friends and colleagues who’ve supported me. And of course thanks to the readers, you writers, because your voice, comments, shares, and discussions are what make this special. I’ll miss it.
But I’ll carry this lesson with me, that it’s okay to let go of something, even if you wish you didn’t have to. It just means there are other things taking up more room right now. Writers, are you carrying with you something that you don’t have space for anymore? Is it time to let go?
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About Annie Neugebauer
Annie Neugebauer is a two-time Bram Stoker Award-nominated author with work appearing and forthcoming in more than a hundred publications, including magazines such as Cemetery Dance, Apex, and Black Static, as well as anthologies such as Year’s Best Hardcore Horror Volumes 3 & 4 and #1 Amazon bestsellers Killing It Softly & Fire. She’s a member of the Horror Writers Association and a columnist for Writer Unboxed and LitReactor. She's represented by Alec Shane of Writers House. She lives in Texas with two crazy cute cats and a husband who’s exceptionally well-prepared for the zombie apocalypse. You can visit her at www.AnnieNeugebauer.com for news, poems, organizational tools for writers, and more.
This is lovely, Annie, and timely. Thanks for posting, and take care of yourself.
Annie, I will miss you and your wonderful voice here, but I get it. And your sweet girl is only a baby/toddler/tween/teen once, too. You know the door is always open. You recently had something accepted for publication, didn’t you? Another short story? I’d love to hear more about that! Write on, friend, and thank you for being with us for as long as you were able.
Thank you for sharing your insights and time over the years.
I wish you all the best, Annie. The future has no boundaries. Enjoy.
Hugs
Dee
Annie, your grace and wisdom always has the power to change my perception of something. I just stepped back from NaNoWriMo this year as a daily writing exercise on other projectz without the pressure of drafting a novel, then convinced myself I should (should is the keyword there) but maybe without the pressure of forcing myself to slog to 50,000 words, then last night realized I was pressuring myself, which is exactly what I was trying to avoid and stepped back. I realized I was making myself feel bad for being too tired from a particularly rough day at work and dinner-cleaning-bathtime-playing with the kids and what, in the grand scheme of things, would me not participating affect this month. Ha. Maybe this is a bit of a cynical take on your post. But watching you over the years, friend, has shown me you can do absolutely anything. Including knowing when to remove something from your plate. I’m so proud of everything you’ve achieved and accomplished.
My daughter commented today when I said I should do something, “should is a dangerous word.” Wow, when I stopped and thought about it, I realized how much pressure we put on ourselves by thinking we should do something. I’m glad you realized that you needed to step back from your “should.” It’s taken me ages to learn that.
What a lovely parting gift you’ve given us, Annie!! I love your tactic of fast-forwarding 20 years to look back. My trick has been to pretend I’m 90, looking back at when I wimped out on myself. Letting go of things that don’t align with who I say I am has become a survival tool. I had a seven-year run of health issues, new babies, failing parents, dying parents, and parting ways with an agent. Somehow, all of that mayhem made me more empathetic, resilient, and willing to say no to others when I needed to say yes to me. Those rough years led me to WU, where I discovered that I’m not the only one spinning plates in service of my work. I wish you all the best going forward. And thank you for a truly wise post today.
A plate over-full? Boy, do I get it. I wish that I was quicker to let go. Instead, I have dropped things and that is a shame that torments me.
I admire your clarity and respect your priorities. Big thanks for your voice in this community. I hope we will hear it still in comments now and then. Be well. Write strong.
Bon voyage! Thank you – it has been very helpful to have your posts.
In twenty years I will be 91. I live now in a community where that’s no big deal.
Sobering, but I’m planning on staying on course, writing as long as there are words still coming, and the trilogy had better be on the shelf!
I show up for writing every day. Period.
That should do it.
Hello Alicia,
In 20 years I will be the same age as you. Recently, after finishing my novel, I discovered I do not have another story to write. Very scary as I have always had something in my head. Was always writing. Now nothing.
It’s been over a year and still nothing. Since I do not have years and years left, this scares me. Have you ever had this experience?
Hey! I remember those early Twitter posts!! I believe you taught me Twitter basics when I was scared to post anything, and now Twitter is about the only social media I use regularly. (Over-use, probably. Okay, definitely over-use. It’s probably safe to say I have a problem I’m working on…)
Thank you for sharing your knowledge and time with us, including todays post. I wish you the best of luck, and maybe I’ll see you on Twitter!
Annie, thank you bigly for your good work here over time. So much of what we do is built or broken by time and circumstance, and we look back and say “Wow! Did I do that, love that, loathe that, avoid that, plunge into that?” and all those other thats.
And then we move on. But sometimes we come back. So, continue on the circle and thank you for your work.
Always endlessly honored to watch your impact on this community, even as it changes. So proud of you for your evergreen candor.
“Giving permission is nice because life is going to take it anyway. Change is inevitable, and so we may as well do our best to embrace it.”
So well said. What a lovely post, and thank you for being such a vital part of this community over the years. No need to apologize for it being time for you to step back. <3
You did fantastic, helpful work here!
What a wonderful post. Not that you announced you are leaving Writer Unboxed, but in what you shared. I especially liked: “Because letting go of one thing is how we make space for something else.”
There have been so many changes, and challenges, in my life of late, I’ve felt like some things have been out of control. Your wise words helped me see how to pull back from the chaos and make a better plan. But mine has to be a five-year plan. I’m older than dirt. LOL
I hope you will return when time opens up one day!
As someone who quits things waaaay too late, I say brava! You’re a wise woman, Annie. And if/when life allows you to return, we’ll be here.