I Don’t Think I Actually Like Writing

I left the corporate world four months ago. Now, theoretically, after cooking and cleaning and managing my two young children’s school events and appointments and all the other domestic necessities for a family of four, I have six hours a day to focus on my dream: becoming a published author.

What I have found instead is that this thing I’ve been chasing for over thirty years is not only harder than I thought it would be, but also innately changed from what it used to be. The revelation feels like a mid-life crisis.

I thought I knew what I was getting into. We have all heard about J.K. Rowling getting “loads” of rejections before finally getting Harry Potter published. I had done research on the industry and various publishing paths. I walked away so inspired from AWP25 (a major writing conference) and local writers’ events.

I think the first crack that appeared in this beautiful, shiny vision was when I lost a cute pencil case holding my favorite Japanese rollerball pens within the first hour at AWP25. I checked with the lost-and-found counter and building security several times throughout the multi-day event, refusing to believe that “my” community would simply throw it away—or worse, keep the pencil case for themselves.

Then the rejections continued pouring in. I’d already been querying literary agents to no avail before AWP25, but the ones that came in after hit harder.

Previously, I was submitting a novel about a first-generation immigrant trying to play the right political games to climb the ladder at tech companies. Two agents read the full manuscript and told me gently that while my writing was solid, the story wasn’t all that interesting. Looking back with a more critical eye, I could see what they meant. My book was, in fact, a memoir masquerading as fiction. There was much I’d envisioned but failed to execute.

This time around, I was submitting a medical memoir I’d written after nearly dying of sepsis at age thirty-five and being hospitalized for four weeks. It was way more personal, which meant the rejections felt more personal, too. My brain knew that these agents and publishers likely did not feel up to the task of representing my book. The industry probably isn’t interested in personal pain and suffering at a time when everyone is suffering and looking to escape from pain; it’s also very, very hard to get readers to care about a memoir by someone who isn’t famous. But my heart felt that no one cared about my life or this nightmare I’d survived. There hadn’t been so much as a paragraph in the local newspaper about my experience. I was told I didn’t have a case for a medical malpractice suit. The State Board of Medical Examiners didn’t think my OB/GYN was at fault in any way for being dismissive of my postpartum fever and pains. And now, no one wanted to help get my 70,000-word book out into the world.

On top of that, I was actively applying to jobs. For four months, I was receiving simultaneous rejections from agents, independent presses, and potential employers. Each response or lack thereof reinforced the message that I suck at writing, work, and life overall.

You need thicker skin, you’re thinking. On good days, I agree. On good days, I have ideas and stories trying to fight their way out of me. I tell myself I can work on the next manuscript while waiting to hear back from publishers on this one. I know it takes time and effort to build up a fanbase and a writer community, and I still have this vestigial mindset from a “gifted” childhood where I expect things to come easily without working for them. That I’m still open to self-publishing, which would enable me to spread awareness of sepsis. That spreading awareness, potentially saving someone from suffering the same fate, is still my top priority for this book.

Ugh, but we writers also want other people to think we’re good at this, don’t we? I also want readers to find my words insightful and inspirational. I want them to go, Wow, I’ve never thought about it that way or That’s interesting information or That strikes a chord, even if it’s just over one sentence out of thousands. I want them to feel invested in my experience and wellbeing.

On bad days, which composed most of this month, I don’t think I’m particularly good at this. I write painfully slowly and spend more time procrastinating than actually doing it. I don’t know when to elaborate on a point and when I am being heavy-handed. I don’t want to be in a community of writers. I am not even half as literary, imaginative, or epic as the authors I admire most. My style is best described as “everyday, with the occasional funny or poetic turn of phrase.” And I am finally coming to accept that that may not be enough.

ChatGPT was the final nail in the coffin for me. I’m so dismayed by the flood of AI slop washing over LinkedIn, Reddit, Facebook, and Instagram. The other day, someone made a very obviously ChatGPT-generated Facebook post promoting a household product to a group of over 40,000 moms. Several members gushed over the “amazing writing style.” Even though a few others replied to point out that this was generative AI, it wasn’t enough to un-break my heart. I think about those studies showing that the average person not only struggles to differentiate between poetry written by humans vs. AI, but even prefers the latter—and I wonder, What’s the point?

When I read The Catcher in the Rye in middle school, I took to heart that notion about how a good book makes you feel as though you could be friends with the author. I believed that if I wrote in a straightforward, accessible manner, people would naturally gravitate to my work. It didn’t happen with my novel, it hasn’t happened with any of the short stories or essays I’ve submitted to online magazines, and it isn’t happening here on Substack. At this point, I don’t even know if I am capable of good writing or why I wanted to be a writer. Maybe what I truly want is respect and admiration from others, and writing was merely my vehicle of choice to procure it.

Every morning once my kids are out of the house, I should be excited to work on a draft—but I’m not. Instead, I just want to play music. Maybe this means the stories in me aren’t meant to be told through books. I’m now exploring alternative paths for sharing them, including but not limited to songwriting. I know everything is hard, takes real work and commitment, and can be tainted by AI. Additionally, a worry lurks in the back of my mind that once I reach a certain level of skill or achievement in another area, I’ll be disillusioned again and come to the same conclusion as I have with writing. But I have to try. I want to believe that I have a calling.

Retirement, Week 7

I had lunch a couple weeks ago with a friend who quit her corporate job last year. When she asked how retirement was going for me, I said I couldn’t believe I used to work eight hours a day and feel I still had enough time left to chip away at my hobbies. Now, the activities I used to cram into the hours of 8:30–10:30 pm seem to take up all day.

“The days just fly by,” she agreed emphatically.

I’m definitely less laser-focused. The world is now truly my oyster, and that means I sometimes have trouble prioritizing personal projects. When I was working, I had to “prioritize ruthlessly,” as I often said in my day job as a product manager. I only had one or two hours a day to write, so I made sure to write. However, as any author will tell you, consistency is key. Neil Gaiman famously tweeted, “I wrote Coraline at 50 words a night.” I’m proud to say that my own discipline enabled me to complete two full book manuscripts in three years.

Writing is still my top priority, or should be. I’m still working on publishing my memoir of surviving sepsis at age thirty-five. I recently got an exciting response from a small, independent press: they’re interested, but would like to see some edits. They even told me exactly what to add, and I agree that it matches my vision for the book and would make it better. With such a clear path forward, I should be working on it six hours a day and wrapping up ASAP! I should be turning in a revised version next week!

But of course, it’s not that easy. I need to dig deeper into this traumatic episode of my past and conduct more research. I think I’m also procrastinating because part of me is afraid that, after making the suggested edits, it still won’t be enough. I’ll get rejected again, and I’ll feel hopeless about such an important story ever seeing the light of day.

There’s other stuff I want to do, too. I would love to build an audience on Substack (where, for now, I’m duplicating the blog posts you find here on WordPress, to see which platform performs better). I see so many notes on my feed from random strangers saying, “I used to get zero views on my posts, but now I have a bunch of subscribers! Keep trying; it can happen to you, too!” I built a DIY harp and have been taking lessons and daydreaming of becoming the next Joanna Newsom. I am reading more, and more critically, as “research” to refine my vision for my first novel. And next month, I will be rejoining rehearsals with the professional symphonic band with which I freelanced from 2012 to 2018. Oh yeah, and I still have two young children to parent.

I’m feeling a lot better about the way I left my last job, though I’m dissatisfied with how gentle I went in the night. Sometimes I think I ought to write a LinkedIn post about retiring, something sharp yet sentimental about my career path and influential players—good and bad—and the tech industry as a whole. But each week that goes by is like another hour at a party where you’ve just met someone and already forgotten their name: the longer you wait to bring it up, the more awkward it feels. After the career I’ve had, I deserve more. I crave attention, validation, vindication, lamentation. I want to see comments from past colleagues and clients about the impact I’ve made on their lives, how amazing and inspiring they find me, and what a shame it is that we’ve lost another woman in STEM.

It occurs to me as I write this that I could still post on LinkedIn once I “achieve” something in retirement. For instance, if I secure a publishing deal for my memoir, I could share that and reminisce about my tech career. Yes, that would do nicely…

I’ve just unlocked a new level of motivation to make those edits. Back to the manuscript!

Retirement, Week 4

On August 14, 2025, I walked out of my office in midtown Manhattan for the last time. The following day, I wrapped up some final tasks, sent a farewell email linking to this reel, and shut down my corporate laptop for good.

I told everyone I was retiring early, which was the partial truth. After very nearly dying from sepsis last year, I realized more than ever how precious this one life is. I wanted more time to achieve personal goals and be with my family.

The full truth was that I’d been pushed out by a toxic manager and an avoidant VP. I was so stressed and unhappy that I was losing sleep over my job—even though it was mostly chill, and I loved everyone else on my team—and getting the Sunday scaries from hell. Likely I was also burnt out from the industry and the endless politicking of my roles in product and program management.

I was interviewing for a once-in-a-lifetime role at another well known technology company. I loved the vibes of both people I’d met so far. The recruiter had terrific energy; the hiring manager was thoughtful and seemed like an inspiring leader. But the more I imagined myself commuting three days a week, trudging in and out of NY Penn Station with increasing NJ Transit delays and no solutions on the horizon, signing up my first grader for after-school care or asking a friend to babysit, not having enough time to cook at home… I couldn’t do it. Even if they would’ve let me work fully remotely, I just couldn’t face the 9-to-5 anymore, with all its systems and logins and meetings and documents and strategizing and OKRs and KPIs and cross-functional collaboration. Frankly, I have enough money that I don’t need that life anymore. So I told them I was out.

Now I am retired. Out of the workforce. A stay-at-home mom. A trophy wife 😄.

I can’t believe three weeks have already passed. I feel as though I have done so much and so little at the same time. Already, I have no idea how I was able to feel any semblance of contentment with my life when forty hours each week was consumed by work. I am surprised I held it together as long as I did, not only dealing with a boss who constantly assumed the worst of me, but also juggling a career with the demands of parenthood and the household. I always had to regiment my time so tightly, visualizing Gantt charts in my head for chores and errands to ensure every hour was maximized for productivity. Everything was go-go-go. Even when I finally allowed myself to wind down with a TV show, I couldn’t just lie there; I had to exercise while watching. I was like this for years.

These slower, spread-out days are not new. In 2023, I was part of a mass layoff that included my entire team. I still have some lingering feelings about that. Part of me wishes I hadn’t transferred to that team, because if I’d stayed on my previous one, I’d probably still be working there today. I wonder why other people were able to rejoin the company quickly, while I got rejected the three times I applied. I see former colleagues celebrating work anniversaries and accomplishments, and question why they got to stay instead of me. But wounded pride and resentment aside, the time off was actually kind of nice. I told myself it was a paid sabbatical. I spent three months relaxing, going for long walks, taking yoga and Pilates classes, and checking out local restaurants and happy hours. A week after my official termination date—those of us based in New York had remained on payroll for 90 days while blocked from everything else—I jumped right into a new job.

It all worked out, more or less. And I feel reasonably confident that, should I decide to return to the workforce in five or more years, it will work out then, too. In the meantime, I am going for more long walks, spending time with my first grader when he comes home from school instead of ignoring him until 5:00, and healing from my traumatic last job. I also hope to have more creative outputs to share here soon.

My First AWP

I was just in Los Angeles for AWP25, a three-day conference and book fair by the Association of Writers & Writing Programs. Over ten thousand writers—published and unpublished—publishers, editors, literary agents, educators, and more gathered for sessions, readings, and networking.

Before the Conference

Mindset

I have a completed manuscript, which means I have a draft of a book that I am ready to show others in hopes of getting it published. It is a 60,000-word memoir about surviving postpartum sepsis at the age of thirty-five. At the hospital, the doctors found me to be at such a late stage of the disease that my heart, lungs, kidneys, and other organs were failing. I essentially had a heart attack and much more. If I hadn’t taken myself to the emergency room that day, I would have passed in my sleep that night.

I have another manuscript from 2023, an 83,000-word corporate dramedy intended as a mix of Silicon Valley, Severance, and Demon Copperhead (actually more like Lazarillo de Tormes, but no one knows what that is unless they’ve studied Spanish literature). I sent it out to a few agents, but received the same feedback from both who’d read the full: “It didn’t grip me the way I thought it would.” After some reflection, I still believed in the concept but had to admit the execution was wanting. This manuscript, which I previously thought was complete, will need dramatic revisions.

Hence, I went into AWP25 with two goals:

  1. For my memoir, learn about the industry: Do I really need an agent? What are the possible publishing paths? What should I be thinking about to get my book into as many readers’ hands as possible?
  2. For my novel, attend sessions on craft: How can I refine the scenes and plot?

Networking was a sub-goal for both. In Big Tech, you could think of it as a KR (key result) for my O (objective). Obviously, you could find articles, discussions, and workshops online to answer the questions above. I wanted to hear from real people what did and didn’t work for them.

Logistics

The very day I signed up for Substack, I saw Courtney Maum’s My Top Tips for AWP Los Angeles 2025. I knew the author from her book Before and After the Book Deal, which was how I’d learned of AWP in the first place. Kismet. The post was extremely helpful, and I patted myself on the back for the excellent decision to join this platform.

During the Conference

Sessions

The main conference and book fair ran from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. PDT on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Sessions were 75 minutes long, with 20 minutes in between. Since I wanted to learn as much as possible, I vowed to attend one in every time slot, which meant a total of 15 talks and over 18 hours of listening time.

All of them were wonderful! With over two dozen options in each slot, it was often hard to pick one, but I was very happy with my selections. My top five, in chronological order:

  • The Art of the Uncanny: This was about effectively employing surrealism, speculative elements, and black comedy. I want my corporate dramedy to be more absurd and scathingly satirical, so this was highly relevant. The panelists read from their works, which all sounded so intriguing, and shared great tips.
    • The session was so packed that all 200+ seats were filled and people were up and down the aisles. Was this a sign of the times—that dystopian works like The Handmaid’s Tale and Black Mirror are hitting harder than ever—or were these authors super famous? (I felt bad, like an imposter, for not knowing most of the presenters at AWP25.)
  • Publishing Paths 101: Big Five, Indie, Hybrid, or DIY?: The panelists answered all my burning questions, and ones that hadn’t occurred to me. Now that I’m back at home, I’m excited to do more research and hone in on the right path for my memoir!
  • Beyond Large PR Budgets: Launching a Book & Reaching Your Readers: Another eye-opening talk for industry newbies. The best takeaway for me was that there’s a lot I can apply from my day job as a product manager to writing and launching a book. I already understood the importance of knowing my audience, but we should also consider the definition of success, evangelism, and product marketing.
  • Becoming a Debut Novelist: The Journey from Agent Queries to Book Launch: The title says it all. This session reinforced the epiphany I had about product vision and strategy for books.
  • Conflict: Hell is Story Friendly; Put Your Protagonist Among the Damned: I almost didn’t go to this one because it was at the same time as “I’ll Tell You What I Want, What I Really, Really Want: Agents Explain Manuscript Wishlists.” However, after attending two discussions the day before that were by and about agents, and one earlier that morning about networking in a productive and genuine way, I was in the mood for a craft panel. Good thing, because these panelists were brimming with insights and humor!

I walked away so, so inspired every day to keep hacking away at this writing thing.

Aside: I hate how you can’t use bullet points anymore without your text looking as if it came from ChatGPT.

After Hours

After 5 p.m., there were many “off-site” events each day. Because I didn’t know anyone or what to expect, I was wary of spending money on cabs to the farther venues. Still, I managed to have a pretty good time.

On Thursday, I treated myself to a fantastic solo sushi dinner at SUGARFISH by Sushi Nozawa, right next to my hotel. Then I headed back to the conference center for the keynote presentation by the legendary Roxane Gay.

On Friday, I went to a nearby brewery for a happy hour hosted by Atmosphere Press. This was my favorite off-site because I actually got to chat with fellow writers, which was not easy to do from 9 to 5 with everyone dashing from one session to the next. I sat at a table with seven others and it was just a very warm, supportive, engaging environment.

It was so fun, I almost regret leaving after one hour for a poetry reading organized by a university press. As an alumna of that university, I wanted to discuss publishing my memoir with them. Turns out they are only printing poetry these days, but at least I enjoyed the reading. It motivated me to make my writing style, eroded to bare bones by so many years of corporate-speak, more literary again.

On Saturday, I attended another poetry reading at a bar. Before it began, I had a great conversation with an editor of a literary review who is also a poet and a writing coach. I signed up for a free poetry workshop that she will be running soon. Maybe I’ll start posting poetry? I’ll think about whether that aligns with my product strategy. 😉

Final Thoughts

AWP25 exceeded my expectations. I achieved my goals for the conference and had an amazing time! I don’t know yet if I’ll be making a habit of it, but I would say it is worth it for aspiring authors to experience at least once. My only regret was losing my pencil case within the first hour.

Life Updates

Today, coming down from the high of attending a beautiful wedding, I find myself full of emotion. Tomorrow begins the final week of my maternity leave, and will be my baby’s first day at daycare. This evokes mixed feelings, just as it did the last time I was in this position five years ago.

There is sadness about the inexorable passage of time, and the precious, tender moments unique to the very earliest days that you’ll never experience again. Guilt about handing off your own flesh and blood to other caretakers for eight hours a day, five days a week. Fear that your innocent, helpless baby will get sick over and over again.

Yet there is also anticipation. I like my job, and having business challenges and technical projects to tackle. It helps me be the most well rounded, confident version of myself. Even though it leaves me less time with my children, it gives me more patience with them and motivates me to make the most of the time we do have together.

There is relief, I have to admit, because these early days wear on me like nothing else. Sure, when the baby falls asleep easily for naps and stays asleep for long stretches throughout the night, it is smooth sailing. Days like that, though, are few and far between. When the baby screams and cries because she’s tired or gassy or constipated, and you’re running on six non-consecutive hours of sleep, it’s much less fun.

Don’t get me wrong—she doesn’t scream that much. She’s a pretty easy baby, for the most part. Plenty of parents don’t even get six hours of sleep a day. And as she grows, taking care of her gets easier still. I actually feel as though we are just getting over a hurdle and finding our rhythm. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad to keep her home with me a while longer. Ah, there’s that guilt again…

At least this is the last “first day of daycare” that we will face as parents. Part of what makes me so emotional is knowing that every milestone we reach with this baby, good or bad or mixed, will be the last. There will be no more after her.

Most of you know that I was hospitalized for four weeks in March. Consequently, I missed out on the second month of our baby’s life, I can no longer breastfeed her, and I will likely die in childbirth if I attempt it once more. I was already thinking two was enough, but I know many people get that baby fever again after a couple years and wonder whether they should try for a third. That won’t be us. There’s a bittersweetness to having the decision made for us.

I have a lot more to say about that near-death experience. Since I’ve been home, I’ve been writing a collection of essays about it. I want to see if I can get it published. If I can save one person from going through the same thing, or simply move someone with my story, I will have achieved something great.

I haven’t forgotten about my novel draft, which I also still want to publish. Seven people have read it and provided very helpful feedback. It is clear in my mind how to proceed from here, but for now, the essays about my hospitalization are more pressing.

These days, I save most of my thoughts and ideas for future books. That’s why I haven’t been blogging much. However, it does feel nice to come here and share some updates like this every now and then, like catching up with an old friend. I’ll try to do it more often.

2023 Year-end Reflections

Wow, my first and only blog post this year. I want to say I’ll make a renewed effort to write here more often next year, but I already know I won’t.

That’s not to say I haven’t been writing, or won’t be in the near future. This year, I wrote more than ever. I wrote an entire novel! It is 81,000 words long, 265 pages of a double-spaced Word document. I started it last November during NaNoWriMo and finished it last month. Next, I’ll be dedicating major time and energy to revisions.

Part of me still can’t believe I did it. Writing a book has been a dream, a bucket-list item, for most of my life. I remember starting my first story, which had something to do with a magic academy, on a Windows 95 computer. I got up to maybe 10 pages at most, before losing creative steam and moving on to other elementary-school pursuits. There are countless other abandoned attempts floating around, opening sentences and paragraphs leading nowhere in my mind, in various notebooks, in the cloud, and probably in broken hard drives in landfills somewhere. But I finally pulled together the ideas and focus to get this body of work done, and for that, I am really proud of myself.

The other big highlight of the year was getting pregnant with our second child. This, too, has been a journey. We started saying three years ago that it might be nice to add to our family. Tiring and stressful days, bad timing, probable fertility challenges, and a miscarriage made it take longer than expected. I don’t mind the bigger age gap, though. With both of us working full-time, I’m happy that our firstborn will be more mature and independent. The three of us are very much looking forward to embracing our new family member soon.

We took four family vacations: to the Poconos, the Bay Area, Seattle, and the Bahamas. My husband and I went to New Orleans on a babymoon, and I traveled alone to Memphis to see an old friend. Each trip created treasured memories and reminded us what a vastly rich, bustling, beautiful world we live in.

Of course, it hasn’t all been sunshine and roses. I got laid off earlier this year, something I never thought would happen to me. It was like getting dumped by a romantic partner out of the blue, when I knew we had some issues but fully intended to remain loyal and work them out. It made me take a long, hard look at my priorities, mental and emotional investments, and identity.

In the summer, I got into a car accident. Someone decided to zoom through a stop sign when I was still in the middle of the four-way intersection. His van slammed into the rear passenger side of my sedan, shattering the windows and deploying the airbags. Thankfully I was uninjured, though I was ten weeks pregnant and worried about the baby. My car, which was paid off and ran perfectly and I planned to keep driving for many more years, was totaled.

Six months after celebrating the retirement of my legendary high school band director, “Dean,” I mourned (or am still mourning) the death of another musical leader and mentor. “Mr. Petes” conducted a local professional ensemble called the Garden State Symphonic Band. When I returned to New Jersey after college, unsure what to do next in life but keen to keep playing music at least, Mr. Petes allowed me to partake in GSSB’s rehearsals and even performances. These were paid gigs, so I felt very proud to be a “professional musician” even if it was only for eight to ten days a year. I played with the band for seven years, until we had a baby followed by the pandemic. Mr. Petes gave me free lessons for a couple years, and in exchange I helped him transcribe music, burn CDs, and do other computer things. “He always thought highly of your flute playing,” his widow wrote me. “‘Keep practicing’ as he would say!” Ah, now I feel bad for not having touched my instrument in months…

Mr. Petes was 86 years old at his passing. He played for many famous acts, such as the Jackson Five and Tony Bennett, and was a longtime teacher. Both he and Dean were on the scene for so long, they established countless connections and influenced decades of musicians and music appreciators. Both of them, along with Elvis Presley (you may laugh to see these names together, but my visit to Graceland during my Memphis trip left a powerful impression), have been making me think a great deal about what I want to achieve and what kind of legacy I want to have.

Anyway, has 2023 been a good year? I’d say both the highs and lows were more extreme than usual. But I do feel that it was pretty good overall, which is how I tend to feel about most years as an adult. In fact, I have a neutral-to-positive view of most intervals of time. It’s rare for me to say I’ve had a “rough week” or a “bad month.” Part of it is that I try not to let myself get swayed too much by specific pros or cons that are all just fleeting moments. Also, I feel these timeframes are so arbitrary, it’s pointless to bog yourself down by fixating on one. This passage from Tommy Angelo’s Elements of Poker* resonates:

There have been times when I wondered how I could ever lose. Days, weeks, even months sometimes, when all I did was win, win, win. […]

There have been times when I wondered how I had ever won. Days, weeks, even months sometimes, when all I did was lose, lose, lose. […]

All of my good streaks and all of my bad streaks of every length and depth have had one thing in common. They did not exist in your mind. They only existed in my mind. And this is true for everyone’s winning and losing streaks. None of them actually exist. They are all mental fabrication, like past and future. Everything that ever happens happens in the present tense. But how can you have a “streak” in the present tense? You can’t. […] There is no inherent existence to streaks. The streak is there when you think about it, and when you stop thinking about it, it goes away. It blossoms and withers, all in your mind. And when your mind invents a streak, you believe it exists, because you believe what your mind tells you. But the truth is there is only the hand you are playing.

That’s all I have to say for now. My New Year’s resolution is to get better at writing endings. 😉 I am excited for the next milestones in my life, whether or not they fall neatly within the 366 days of 2024. And I hope you have some awesome things coming your way, too. Happy New “Year”!

*Not everyone knows that I used to be heavily into poker. I began playing Texas hold ‘em with friends in college. After graduation, when I only had a part-time job, I was a regular at Parx Casino near Philadelphia. I grew to love the $6/$12 limit Omaha and stud game, and I made what I considered at the time to be some decent side money. Now it’s been years since I played poker at a casino, and I’m not sure when or if I will be back. But when someone on Reddit recently recommended Elements of Poker as a “life-changing book,” I was intrigued. I’m about 3/4 done and finding it quite profound, indeed.

2022 Year-end Reflections

I almost didn’t log in today to continue my tradition of New Year’s Eve blogging. I’ve been so absorbed in other projects that I’ve been ignoring this site, and I know it. Then I thought, Why not? It doesn’t have to be long or eloquent. It can just be something. There should be something.

I guess you could say I have a new mantra these days: “Just fifteen minutes. You can always take fifteen.” It’s been a surprisingly helpful stimulus.

This came from participating in National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, last month. The goal is to write at least 50,000 words of a book. I’ve known about the program forever, but this was my first time giving it an earnest try. With a toddler running around, I knew the official goal would be so daunting that I’d get unnerved and give up immediately. I set a personal target of 30,000 instead, figuring 1,000 a day was still a stretch, but doable. After the first week, I started falling behind and already wanted to quit. However, this mantra kept me going, and I proudly finished the month at 30,013.

Screenshot of the spreadsheet where I tracked my daily word counts for NaNoWriMo 2022
My daily word counts for NaNoWriMo 2022. I got sick on the 7th and was ready to surrender when I saw how much I was already lagging behind my goal.

My resolution for 2022 was to write more, and I definitely achieved that. In the first half of the year, I wrote six articles for The Workprint, an entertainment website. I watch a lot of TV, so it felt great to make that time feel productive somehow and have a real platform for my lowly thoughts and opinions.

Then I decided to focus more on creative writing. I discovered and joined a relevant group at work. The founder, a technical writer named Melissa who published her first novel this year, leads frequent chatroom discussions, lunch meetings, and writing sprints to motivate and inspire us. Before this, I’d only taken one writing workshop as an adult, which was a semester-long course at a nearby community college in 2016. This group was therefore only my second time being surrounded by people who were constantly talking about their work and writing. And since this was a work thing, for the first time I was surrounded by people with similar day jobs who were all trying to squeeze in writing on the side. It was a mentality game-changer.

When Melissa created a subgroup for NaNoWriMo and shared links to tips and suggested pre-work, I thought for the first time, I can actually do this. One of these links went to a quiz that suggested the best writing schedule for your personality and lifestyle. My result said to aim for 750 words a day on weekdays (slightly more than one page in the morning, one in the evening) and 1,687.5 on weekends (less than two pages per hour). Broken down this way, hitting 30K seemed almost easy.

She mentioned one day that, often when she’s procrastinating on a work task or tempted to scroll mindlessly through social media, she takes ten or fifteen minutes to add to a creative work in progress, instead. Why not? We all have these little pockets of time everywhere: between reading through that last unread email at 9:17 and the scheduled meeting at 9:30, when one of your back-to-back calls ends ten minutes early, when someone messages you “Hi, quick question” and then doesn’t say anything else for a while. Might as well seize those moments to advance your story’s plot by a few sentences.

Or pedal through a couple songs on the exercise bike. Or go for a walk around the block. Or do some push-ups. You can do so much in ten to fifteen minutes, honestly.

Much of what I wrote during NaNoWriMo ended up being garbage, but it felt so good to flex that part of the brain and just write. I also learned so much about myself as a writer and my creative process. Today, I am cautiously excited to share that I have 10K words of a Real Debut Novel in the works. My resolution for 2023 is to complete it, and enlist some of you as beta readers!

Other highlights from this past year:

  • Read 27 books*! Favorites were Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson, The Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin, In the Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin, Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng, We Were Dreamers by Simu Liu, and Born a Crime by Trevor Noah.
  • Got promoted at work
  • Went on our first family vacation with the 3-year-old
  • Attended a bachelorette party
  • Officiated two weddings
  • Played two concerts with our work orchestra, one of which featured some duets with my new cellist friend
  • Did a bunch of outreach to students at NYC public schools about technology careers
  • Started playing the piano again
  • Got a 15-year-old cyst removed

*You may be wondering, how on earth did I find the time to read so much? Lots of audiobooks, lots of ten- to fifteen-minute bursts. 😉 Mostly while doing chores, walking outside, and driving.

For the first time in years, I feel most of the time that I have a pretty good balance in life. I’m focused on and confident about clear, specific missions. There have certainly been lowlights, as well, but I’m getting more resilient and dealing better with things.

Here’s to ever more growth and confidence in 2023.

Crying in H Mart

I just finished Crying in H Mart: A Memoir, by Michelle Zauner. (Fans of indie music may know her as the lead of the band Japanese Breakfast.) It is about losing her mom to cancer, being half-Korean, and her life and relationships. I had read her titular essay in the New Yorker twice: once when it was first published in 2018, and again a couple months ago for a “short story club” I’m in at work.

Not too many people seem to do short story clubs, but I think they’re great. Like a book club, a short story club is enjoyable because you get to discuss all the thoughts and feelings you have after reading something. With more cryptic works, you can share interpretations and draw out deeper meaning than you might on your own. You might even change your mind about a story, as I did with Chekhov’s “The Lady with the Dog.” Unlike a book club, the commitment is very light, so it is not a big deal—it might even make it more fun—if you didn’t like the assigned reading.

Maybe it was the discussion with a Korean club member that made me appreciate “Crying in H Mart” even more the second time around. Maybe it was that I’m a mother now, wondering how and how much my child will identify with his Chinese side as he gets older. Or maybe two years of pandemic living made me really, really miss eating in an Asian food court. When my next monthly Audible credit came in, I spent it on Zauner’s audiobook.

I hadn’t listened to Japanese Breakfast before, so I didn’t know anything about the author. It turns out we are quite similar. She has lived in Philadelphia and New York, so she feels local. We both wrestled with growing up Asian in America. We have a sadly rudimentary grasp of our mother tongues. We were depressed in high school and college, and tried to fix it with aimless wandering in the middle of the night. We are writers and musicians—though she is obviously more accomplished than I on both fronts. We love food, have strong memories around it, tie it tightly with our cultures, and treat it as a love language. We can cook all the American comfort foods we want, but need to find a recipe online for something our mothers used to make to feel truly nourished. We are only four months apart in age.

Furthermore, I was surprised by all the ways I related to Zauner’s complex relationship with her mother. There were the givens, the universal characteristics of Asian moms: the constant criticisms and critiques, making you feel never good enough, obsession with skincare and style. At the same time, our mothers provided comforting home-cooked meals, and conveyed their love through acts of service.

There were also experiences I never imagined others to have in common. Feeling ill-prepared for college and sophisticated conversations because my parents didn’t—couldn’t—expose me to the “right” books, movies, or music. (“You’ve never seen Caddyshack?” I still remember an annoying white girl asking me incredulously. “What kind of parents do you have?” Ones who didn’t speak English when it came out, I wish I’d replied.) Receiving rage and lectures instead of comfort whenever I was hurt or unwell. Being told not to shake my leg, lest the luck be shaken out. And the one I find the most uncanny: the sudden physical revulsion at my mother’s touch once the teenage years hit.

The key difference is, Zauner eventually came back around. She strove to be the best daughter possible because she truly, deeply loved her mom. Her first words as a baby had been umma and mom, calling for the same person twice. Toward the end, she wanted to hold onto every memento and memory. Me… perhaps, even as a baby, I was already set in my ways. My mother says I didn’t have a first word; I was silent for two years, and then my first sentence was, “I want to drink milk.” Recently, I reread the essay I’d written about my mother almost six years ago, “A Mother’s Love.” I think it’s still one of the best things I’ve ever written. And the relationship described therein hasn’t changed a bit.

There are some reviews online where readers said they loved Crying in H Mart because they, too, had lost a loved one to cancer. Zauner even mentions toward the end of the book that some people are fans of her music because they relate to losing their parents too soon. I am fortunate enough not to have experienced the death of a close family member yet. Although I certainly found the passages around the cancer and its aftermath to be heart-wrenching and beautifully written, I guess I can’t say I know exactly how it feels.

What I found the most rewarding about the book was simply getting to know Michelle. A creative, conflicted, well intentioned, lovely soul… who feels so strikingly familiar, whose writing style even feels like my own at times. I celebrate her successes out of solidarity, because I want people like us to succeed. A daughter overcoming challenges with her mother and fortifying their love. An Asian-American embracing her Asian-ness, and connecting to the culture through cooking. An Asian-American writer with a published book that is going to be made into a movie. A female Asian-American musician with over 1.5 million monthly listeners on Spotify (and a Grammy nomination!), who used to worry about the industry not having room for her or whether her parents would approve. An individual with mental health battles and tremendous loss finding love and meaningful relationships.

I also loved exploring her relationship with her mom. When things were bad, they screamed at each other, said awful things, and even got into a physical fight. But when things were good, they were so good. They shared amazing foods, traveled, created these everlasting imprints, and made each other feel valued and beloved. Observing their time together, I felt rapport, wistfulness, despair, bitterness, amusement, bemusement, and envy.

Michelle Zauner’s struggles in the book were painfully real and human. So much of her memoir was vulnerable and profoundly relatable. I got to know her throughout her story, and now I could see us going for Korean food, wings and beer, or Taiwanese beef noodle soup together. There’s something special when the author of a book feels like a friend—right, Salinger?

After “closing” the book in the app, I feel inspired. My own feelings and ideas seem validated and worth sharing with the world someday. Zauner made me realize that I, too, was afraid there was no more room for a story like mine or a writer like me. If so much of her writing resonated with me and made me feel seen, then maybe I could do the same for someone else. And if she could love her mother so profoundly, flaws and language barrier and all, then maybe there is hope for me yet.

33

So far, I’m actually feeling great about 33.

This time last year, I was on the express train to burnout. We had pulled our child back out of daycare, fearing the spike in COVID cases over the holidays. We were taking turns parenting an active almost-two-year-old while I was putting in 10- to 12-hour work days. I was also planning all our meals, ordering weekly grocery deliveries, cooking, doing laundry, and trying to keep our house minimally clean.

I had hefty deliverables at work with ambitious deadlines. Roughly 200 hours went to offloading a major responsibility that our team had outgrown and come to dread. I spent another 200 or more developing materials for a top corporate priority in 2022. I also influenced a busy, important team to contribute to foundational work that has since been used for dozens of spin-off projects—notably, succeeding where another group had failed twice before. All with no material help from anyone else in my department.

In the end, incredibly, I pulled it all off.

And nobody cared.

My manager—with whom I’d always had a great relationship, who saw and appreciated my work without micromanaging, who promoted me while I was on maternity leave—left the company. His replacement didn’t understand my unique role. I had prepared a summary of achievements and metrics, but he didn’t even spare it a glance. He didn’t want to talk about the path to my next promotion or making me a manager, something I’d been asking about for almost two years. In fact, he actively discouraged me from these goals. So I left the team. Then two white men were promoted internally to management, and a third and fourth were hired externally.

There’s more to this story (and I’m all too happy to share), but I don’t want to spend the bulk of this post griping about the past.

In February, as I finalized the move to a new team, I reflected on two lessons learned:

  1. Trying to be a hero isn’t worth it.

  2. Trying to change someone else’s perception of what a leader looks like isn’t worth it, either.

I realized how laughable it was that I had pushed myself so hard at work for this kind of leadership team. I genuinely thought I was earning a promotion, or at least a 5 out of 5 rating in my semiannual employee evaluation. I had gotten a 4 out of 5 the previous evaluation, and this time around I worked much harder for more impressive achievements—so a higher rating seemed logical, even inevitable. Yes, I was delusional.

I happened upon an internal memo explaining various corporate structures and how ours is a slime mold. Sounds unglamorous, but it explained how slime molds can be very intelligent and useful. For example, if you arrange food in the same layout as Japanese cities around Tokyo, a slime mold will grow in the same pattern as Japan’s rail system. With this kind of culture (pun intended), heroics are almost always futile.

It also outlined, like game theory, the risks of juggling multiple concurrent projects and strategies to maximize their success. The main takeaway was that everyone needs to say what they’ll do and do what they said. I thought this was so profound, even though it’s basically a schoolyard adage in the same class as “do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” It wasn’t a novel concept, but given everything else going on in my life at the time, it suddenly made the pieces click together in a meaningful way.

It was applicable to social interactions and relationships outside of work. How often have I tried super hard to be there for someone, only for my efforts to go unreciprocated? Or how often have I failed to help or support a friend? I’m not suggesting that every potential action should be weighed against a ledger of past transactions. Instead, I should assess more thoughtfully whether something is truly going to be appreciated, whether someone truly appreciates my time and me. I understand it isn’t always personal. We all have different social circles and obligations. As with different cross-functional projects at work, we need to communicate and commit at whatever levels are appropriate for our relationships to thrive. And if someone is locked into a certain perception of me, there’s only so far I’m willing to go to change it.

The takeaway was fitting for the battle against viral outbreaks and the COVID-19 pandemic, too. Why have some of us been trying so hard to be responsible with sheltering in place, wearing masks, getting vaccinated, and so on, only for others to scoff at the virus and bring it to endemicity? It’s hard not to feel frustrated or bitter about having done our individual parts and still failed as a collective. Yet this scenario is dissimilar, since the spread vs. eradication of COVID isn’t the only indicator of failure vs. success. As long as my family and I are alive and healthy, we are succeeding—and grateful. Our efforts here aren’t in vain.

With each passing year, I get better at setting and focusing on goals and priorities for my life. This past year in particular, I’ve given more thought to other people around me, what their priorities might be, and whether it’s worth attempting to engage them. It feels weird writing it out this way, but I honestly feel I still have so much to learn (or re-learn?) about being social. It is helpful to approach or frame it as I would a work situation.

In and out of work, I’ve become deeply thankful for frankness, earnestness, and dependability. This is a big deal because I was raised only to value intelligence, and only a narrow definition of it. It’s taken conscious (un)learning to appreciate other types of intelligence and traits such as kindness. This has given me a sort of clarity that makes me more content with my life now than I’ve ever been.

Of course, there’s more to the contentment that I’m feeling these days. Work is much less stressful, yet feels more impactful. Our toddler is such a delight; he is mostly cheery and agreeable, loves to clean and help, is cute and funny, is willing to explore new things, and shows me new ways to view the world around us. I joined a book club at work and have gotten into audiobooks, “reading” all the time while doing chores, going for walks, and driving around. And I think I’m finally ready to start writing more regularly again, which is exciting. For once, not only am I at peace, but I am also optimistic that we can make it last.

Beach Day

Today, I had the best day with my kid.

We went to a beach I’d never visited before. When we arrived at 9:15 am, I was pleasantly surprised to find only two other parties as far as the eye could see. It felt as if we had the place to ourselves. It was sunny and hot. Supposedly the day’s high would go up to 97 degrees, but by the ocean, it felt perfectly comfortable.

As I placed our belongings on the sand and got my bearings, my kid ran to the shoreline. He lost his balance in the retreating tide and fell flat on his butt in his everyday clothes. It was a cute, comical sight.

I changed him into beach clothes, and then we dug into the sand with his little plastic shovels and made shapes with his molds. We walked up and down the shoreline and counted jellyfish. He chased seagulls and shouted, “Hey, come back!” when they flew away. We floated his toy boat into the sea and clapped as the tide pushed it back into his hands. He tried to sit in the water several times, but jumped to his feet and ran away as soon as the cold swept in. He found two flawless seashells with the same nonchalant luck behind a four-leaf clover a couple weeks ago. Every so often, he would grin or giggle at nothing but the wonder of being at the beach. My heart swelled with love for this sunny, inquisitive, sweet, adorable little toddler who was all mine. And like this, two hours flew by.

There was a small amusement park next to the beach. He’d noticed and marveled at the “big playground” during the drive, so he was excited when I suggested heading over there to take a look. He expressed interest in a ride that featured a dozen green and yellow cars going around in a circle. I paid a dollar and took hilarious photos and videos of him looking bored and disdainful on the ride. Next, he pointed at the purple “train tracks” of a roller coaster. We sat together; I whooped and laughed while he sat in bewildered silence. When it was over, he exclaimed, “Fun train tracks!” It was so cute that the park attendant chuckled, too.

We went home and ate lunch. After reading some books together, he played quietly with his miniature cars until he fell asleep right there in the living room.

Today, I had the day off from work. My original plan was to send my kid to daycare and have time to myself at home, maybe make up some work I’d meant to complete last week. Then I thought about how my husband and I had dragged him to hang out with our friends every day of the long weekend. We hadn’t had much time for just our family. We have plans the next few weekends, too. When would be the next time we could go to the beach? Wouldn’t it be crowded during the weekend, anyway? And he is growing up so quickly. How much older would he be “next time”?

I’m so happy I got to take the little guy out on an adventure. (Almost) two and a half years is such a fun age. I want to remember how today felt for the rest of my life. I hope he made some happy core memories today, too.