An Author's Note
When someone publishes your book before you...
Hello readers! It’s good to be back.
I took some (much-needed) time off to regroup and recharge. During the break, I went to my first ever Glastonbury.
For five days I experienced the weightlessness that comes with a prolonged out-of-office message. I danced in fields, went to bed without alarms, and left my professionalism at the airport. At the festival, my energy boiled over until I had nothing left to give.
So weightless, I became empty.
The first day back to reality was a challenge. We lugged our farm clothes on city transit feeling less and less free with each kilometre. The rattle of the train panged through my hollow head, and, despite having a week left in England, I felt the first tug of stress.
Soon, I remembered, I will be filled with “things.”
I made myself focus on the English countryside instead of my looming to-do list. I counted fields of sheep (four in total) and observed herds of people scuttling across station platforms.
I was just relaxing back into vacation mode when I noticed a poster for a book. It was eye-catching, new, and oddly family. Namely, because it had the same premise as the book I’ve been writing since November.
I googled it before we even stopped at the station.
The book is billed as a Breathtaking Sunday Times Bestseller and is longlisted for the Women's Prize for Fiction 2023. The synopsis was like reading a translated version of my work. The core idea was there, but the words felt strange. They were slightly too good to have come from my mind.
“Beautiful and moving,“ reviewed Neil Gaiman
'Witty, gripping, ruthless,' praised Margaret Atwood
Whatever levity I had found was replaced with boulders.
I like my title better, was my first thought. My second was that I’d wasted my time.
I felt stupid for ever writing with urgency. When I started my first draft, I was paranoid that someone would beat me to the punch. I was weighed down with the sense that it had to happen now, or I’d miss my shot. I wrote like I was already late.
It turns out I was.
I berated myself for taking time off - as if these extra ten days would have made a difference. Even if I had finished my book by now, I would be years behind in getting it published. There was never any point in rushing.
The truth is I’ve ignored my draft for months. Editing is overwhelming, and reading my own half-baked words is its own kind of torture. The gap between what I've written and what I want the book to be feels insurmountable. But someone else figured it out.
And Neil Gaiman loved it.
My frustration fountained, and I wanted to rip the poster from the station. I felt as though someone had crawled into my brain and yanked out its best idea. I wish I had marked my territory somehow. I want to piss over the boundaries of my mind. I want to piss on this new book, too.
Now, my work is destined to be some second-rate version of this fabulous book. It makes me wonder if there’s a point in continuing. Am I even creative? Do I have a unique point of view?
After a minor anxious episode and a few tears on the train, I tried to be reasonable. It’s impossible for two people to write the exact same story. It’s highly likely for two creatives to have similar inspirations.
The deeper I dove into the book online, the more differences I found. There are elements that make my project unique. Those details are what make the story mine.
In a lot of ways, this book takes the pressure off. Knowing it already exists on shelves will help me finally drop the weight of urgency. I’m no longer the only person carrying this concept. Another interpretation is already out there, and now I can focus on exactly the way my story needs to be told.
And I do think it needs to be told.
I - and most authors- write for ourselves first. Coincidentally, the UK is where my first book was published. Lorelei taught me so much about myself as a writer, an artist, and someone living with chronic pain. It’s crazy to me that people want to read it. There are libraries in Ottawa where my book is consistently taken out. And still, I question whether anyone would want to read my work.
I have this nagging voice downplaying the achievement. It’s not that big a deal, I think, it’s not even in Indigo.
It is, however, In Waterstones, the UK Indigo equivalent. A fact I confirmed while we were walking through London. Sure, it wasn’t in stock, but I could order it from the cashier, and that counts for something.
The ideas for Lorelei and my work-in-progress stemmed from one specific desire: I wanted to read books like them. Despite my jealousy and paranoia, I’m grateful another author had the same thought. There’s enough room on my bookshelf for both of us.
When we got back to Canada, I swallowed my pride and ordered a copy of the book. I fully expect to huff all the way through it, but I’m also excited to see this person’s take. With any luck, it will be more inspiring than it is demoralizing. Even if it isn’t, I owe it to them to show my support.
We have the same taste, after all.
*PS: I intentionally didn’t share the other book title because #nospoilers