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.

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.

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.