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:

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?
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.