how I became a writer, part 2, because Kristy asked me to write this down

Part Two: Sharing

Here’s part one: https://www.lesliemcadamauthor.com/blog/2021/6/9/how-i-became-a-writer-part-1-because-kristy-asked-me-to-write-this-down

After I made the decision to take my writing seriously—and to get help in doing so—it wasn’t anywhere near the end of my writerly journey, of course. (I’m still nowhere near the end.)

I don’t remember how exactly I started, except that I’d been messing around with the story that eventually became The Sun and the Moon and brought it to Kristy for review, ten pages at a time. I had to start somewhere. (Maybe I’d started fifteen years before…)

She taught me basic things at first. Watch out for “wuzzies” (using the passive voice/was as the only verb). Add in sensory details. Etc.

But we also talked about psychological and business stuff for writers, too.

An amusing early conversation we had was where she brought up pen names. And I was like, I’m not using one. This is part of my recovery. I’m claiming my writing in my own name. And Kristy said something along the lines of, “Well, okay, then. That’s a conversation we don’t have to have.” And I got the feeling that if I hadn’t made that choice, while she would have supported it, she was secretly pleased that I was using my own name. Me deciding this before she brought it up saved her a sales job.

But being “Leslie McAdam” has caused some issues. Namely, I have nowhere to hide. This is me. Every sex scene, swear word, cringeworthy event, wank, mistake—intentional or otherwise. All me. I’ve had to learn to own it.

Admittedly, I’ve had a few moments where I’ve been tempted to use a pen name and put out something that I didn’t have as much of an interest in “getting right.” Just to see what would happen.

I can’t do it, though. Or at least I haven’t really and truly wanted to (because if I did, I would). Those thoughts have just served as a daydream. But I’ve felt I’ve made the right choice, at least for me. I need the power of owning my words, and I don’t want to hide. (As I’ve said in other posts, this isn’t a commentary/judgment on others who use pen names. All I’m saying is it wasn’t—isn’t—right for me.)

So, here I am. This is me. And I write all sorts of open and vulnerable words. I’ve learned that the more open and vulnerable my words are, the better my writing is and the freer I feel. But that doesn’t mean it’s been easy to talk about some of the things I write about.

Actually, correction. It’s relatively easy to write these words. The hard part is pushing “publish” because that opens up criticism. The moment I take the words from being on my laptop or notebook and put them out there for consumption, they are now meant for someone else. And that reader can take my words in an infinite number of ways. I’m always hoping for the connection, but I’ve had to learn that not every reader is for me. Some don’t connect at all, no matter what I write. And I think at this point, I’ve had every reaction, from (three) readers tattooing my books on their skin to one star reviews (and lots of them). While I’ve always known this intellectually, I’ll admit I’m still learning it from an emotional level.

But I still share. And that, I think, is the brave thing.

As part of sharing, I’ve had to overcome perfectionism. I’ve had to allow in some errors. Because if I waited for everything to be absolutely just right, I’d never publish a thing. While I still have perfectionist tendencies and I care very much about grammar and quality, every time I write a blog post, I face these fears and tendencies head on. My blog posts are raw and unedited, just me and the words without any professional help. And every time I share one, I still think, “fuck it.”

And post.

(Even after a year and a half of doing this twice a week. Even after almost six years of publishing novels.)

But besides my words not being for everyone, I’ve also learned that I really don’t have many people around me physically who like my writing. (They like me just fine.) Very few people in my “real” day-to-day life, though, are my readers. My family certainly is not. (Not a judgment, but I don’t write it for them and I actively discourage them from reading to spare both of us the pain.) I don’t work with very many people who read (or understand) romance, either. (Cue “Romance isn’t cheesy Fabio” rant.)

Thus, a part of my recovery was to stop caring what those around me thought about my creativity.

Sorry, not sorry. If you know me, but don’t care for my writing, well, I don’t write for you. My books aren’t for you. I’m not writing this post for you, and I don’t care if you read it or not.

(But of course I wouldn’t say it that strongly if there wasn’t a part of me longing to be accepted in all regards, not just those facets that are easy to show off.)

So, facing the reality that I don’t know any romance readers IRL, I’ve had to reach beyond what I have here in my home and work to find those who appreciate what I write.

Enter: the glorious internet.

At some point (this is 2015), I’d discovered Wattpad, and with Kristy’s encouragement posted my first tentative chapters.

I remember posting the first chapter, then looking at it and seeing that I had a view. And then realizing that the view was me. Face palm.

I also felt like I should hide under the desk because the first paragraph of my first book starts—intentionally so—mid-thrust in a bad sex scene. (The sex is bad; hopefully the scene is not.)

After I posted it, I simultaneously wanted people to read it and wanted no one to read it. I felt open and vulnerable and powerful and scared and brave and really and truly alive. I still wanted to hide sometimes, though. And I was proud of myself for putting it out there.

Then I posted another chapter.

And another.

The early feedback on those chapters from readers is something I’ll treasure. From grammar correction (I’ve only slightly improved on comma placement, but at least I learned it’s a thing I do) to pointing out story issues, the feedback I got from Wattpad really helped and encouraged me.

I finished the story in maybe a month. And then I wrote another. And another.

And I kind of haven’t looked back since. Sure, I’ve had moments where I’ve been stuck on one story for too long. I’ve taken a while to publish, then publish a bunch at once.

But I’ve kept a near-daily writing habit for years,  and I think it’s the most important thing I do.

Oh, and that first story? It ended up winning a Watty. At the time there were 40 million app users and 75,000 entries, so it was the world’s largest online writing competition.

Yeah, that felt good. I found my readers.

The other thing that happened is after about eighteen months, I was completely free from depression. I’m not kidding, it’s a distant memory. I still get anxious, yes, but I have not felt depressed in years.

I’m pretty sure that all this expression and authenticity had a lot to do with it (along with me trying everything—medication, therapy, exercise, and so on).

So, if you are wanting to write, make decisions based on your own life, not someone else’s. Certainly not mine. Use six pen names. Write whatever the hell you want. Get help.

But publish.