My dreams are starting to come true, so I am FREAKING OUT

Fantasy is so much better than reality

This post has nothing to do with the hunter-gatherers, so go ahead and skip it if that’s what you are here for.

Sometimes I think that the only reason I even started a Substack is because it’s a kind of twisted, free, public therapy. At least I am in good company. When I spoke with Nightbitch author Rachel Yoder she confessed to me that she did not even intend to publish her book at first; she was just trying to write her way out of a shitty reality.

That’s the thing about reality: most of the time, it’s shit. I think the main reason why so many of us (Americans especially) are obsessed with this endless quest to find our passion is that it permits us to spend most of our time in a mental future that doesn’t have the sharp edges of the present. As British comedian Eddie Izzard puts it, “You [Americans] pursue happiness. Come on, happiness! Bang! I found me some happiness, I’m gonna shoot it now.”

I am very much a pursuer of happiness, and two things I have been pursuing for a very long time are about to happen: I am on the verge of selling my book to a publisher and my family is moving to the southwest of France.

I have always wanted to be a writer. When I was about 10, I remember proudly declaring to my father that I would be a journalist when I grew up. He told me I might want to think hard about that choice. Journalism is a dying profession, he said. He’s not wrong. But the thing is, we want what we want. As my former mentor Robert Sapolsky likes to put it, we can do what we want, but we can’t really choose what we want. We are not ultimately the captains of our own ships.

In retrospect, traditional journalism probably would have been a terrible career choice for me, given my general disdain for working for other people inside an organization (a very limiting fault, I know). I am having way more fun writing this Substack and potentially, if things go well, it may turn out to be just as lucrative (again, not a high bar in the writing world). But I was right about my desire to earn a living by putting words on a page. That has not changed. And suddenly, it feels possible, which is why I am having a panic attack.

You see, in my mental image of myself as a career writer, I spend my time in a lovely, quiet room overlooking a garden. The words flow from my fingertips in an effortless string of perfectly-formed sentences. I am never short of ideas, never stuck. There are no children to interrupt me. I don’t have to deal with criticism and a constant, nagging sense of inadequacy. I don’t have to do the grunt work of writing book proposals or pitching my work to news outlets or constantly posting on Instagram in order to build my author platform. In reality, the amount of actual time that I spend writing is pretty small for someone who calls herself a writer. Bu the shit work is inevitable. it exists in every profession. There is no escape, unless you constantly keep it at arms length, in the world of fantasy.

If I have learned anything from my last couple of years of radical exploration of various daring career paths it is this: you have to pick your favorite flavor of shit sandwich. There is no not eating shit. Everyone eats shit. It’s just a matter of whether you want it on focaccia or sourdough.

In my case, I have decided that I care enough about this work and the message I am trying to convey that it’s worth the grunt work, the constant, minor wounds to my ego that come from incessantly putting myself out into the world, the backlash from all sides. I don’t mind writing proposals and making social media content because it’s all part of my greater why. But some days, it still sucks. Right now I am facing down yet another round of edits to my book proposal, which is never good enough, and damn it, I just don’t want to do it. Maybe it’s also because I am terrified that once the deal is actually signed, I will truly be committed to doing this thing that has existed for so long in a protective bubble of pure fantasy: writing the goddamn book.

As for our move to France…

My dad likes to say, “wherever you go, there you are.” Changing countries isn’t going to solve all of my problems. I have been bookmarking unbearably cute rustic French countryside homes on Pinterest for the last year, but we are just as likely to end up in a thin-walled condo next to a suburban strip mall, given what I’ve learned about the local housing market. Yes, we will have health insurance. Yes, school will finally be free for both children (and last all day long), but getting them enrolled in the middle of the year without a permanent address is likely going to be a nightmare. Then there’s the issue of these Basque folk, who apparently hate anyone not Basque, and so my friend group is less likely to be a club of artistically-inclined and well-read feminist rebels, and more likely to be a herd of sheep. Maybe that’s okay. Who needs friends when you have views like this?

At the end of the day, I think we are all just along for the ride. It goes up, it goes down. Rather than trying to keep it at the top—rather than trying to build a whole new track just to have it your way—the best thing to do is throw your hands up in the air and shout yahooooooooooooo!!!

The loop-de-loop is coming either way. It’s up to me whether I choose to enjoy it or not.

Here we go.