The Pause is the Lesson
Launching a debut novel from inside a raging dumpster fire
Early on a cold morning in October, I climbed onto a platform running alongside a massive, wood-fired kiln. A river of white hot flame eddied inside. I buttoned up my borrowed welding jacket, pulled down the visor to cover my face, and tucked stray hairs under my bandanna. Last step: I tugged on a pair of thick, heat-resistant gloves. Then, I reached forward, opened a porthole into the 2500+ degree fire — and stuck my hand in.
As research for my next book, I spent 10 days this fall helping to feed the largest wood-fired, multi-chamber kiln in North America. The experience also turned out to be eerily similar to what it feels like to launch my debut novel from the inferno we all currently live in.
Some of you know what a hard road my novel’s publication journey has been. Outside Women took almost ten years to write and then two years of rejections before it sold. When I finally received the good news from my press in August, 2023, I was ready to unleash years of pent-up celebration energy. But then, a few weeks later, I didn’t feel like celebrating any more. The world was engulfed in flames. And the fire has only multiplied into more frenzy since. Most of the time, writing and selling novels has felt insignificant and pointless.
That’s still how I often feel, but now, I also feel something else. Helping to fire the kiln gave me a glimpse into a different way to process our reality. On my first day at the kiln, reaching forward and deliberately opening a door into the fire seemed insane and impossible. I did it, and safely. But the panic brought on by that brief danger was so all-consuming that afterward, I could barely remember what I’d seen or felt of the fire. When I confessed as much to my shift leader, she said, this is the hard work for all of us — learning to pause, breathe, and suppress the full-body panic the fire evokes.
That pause before I enter the fire continues to be my hardest fought lesson. It’s the moment when I got ready, tucked my hair into its covering, took a breath to center, looked around at the people who were there to support me — the moment that got me ready to face the flame. At the kiln, and now, back here in my everyday. Because we can’t confront whatever comes in the next four years while in a constant state of embodied crisis. We must learn to pause.
In that pause, I remember that I’m still here, and you’re still here, and we’re reading, and we’re breathing. We’re holding on to that, and to each other, tight. I’m four months away from having an actual book in an actual bookstore. Books have always been my best friends — my pause and preparation for everything hard I’ve already lived. I hope the book I wrote can be a friend to someone else.
If you’ve been along for this writing and publication ride and want to get fully on board, I want your support! My non-profit university press has limited resources so I’m sitting here at this firemouth, typing away pitch emails to people I’ve never met. It feels about as terrifying as opening a porthole to a river of flame, but I’m doing it anyway. Because I’ve never been prouder of anything I’ve made as I am of this book. And I want my communities, the people I wrote it for, to find this friend. Here are some things you could do that would help:
Pre-order! Pre-orders are make-or-break for writers, and especially debut writers like me — they tell publishers and distributors to invest effort in this book. You can pre-order online at Bookshop or directly from the publisher.
Tell your local indie bookstore about my book (or pre-order it directly from them) so they have it on their radar to recommend to others.
Ask your local librarian to pre-order copies.
Introduce me to your journalist, blogger, substacker, or podcaster friends! No outlet is too small.
Repost my pre-order link to your socials.
Invite me to speak at your school, university, or organization.
And send good thoughts!
If you’re reading this in your email inbox, it’s probably because you subscribed to my long-dormant newsletter many moons ago! And I’m the last human alive to move over to Substack. Thanks for reading my first post on this platform all the way through. Moving forward, I’m going to post occasional updates here about the writing and clay life and share events and excitement as I get closer to novel launch day. I promise not to post more than once a week! Though it’ll likely be much less frequent than that.
Still, if this isn’t for you, feel free to unsubscribe and no hard feelings. Hope you find your pause wherever and whenever you need it most.
What a great essay. I really felt the risk of the fire and what a great comparison to what comes next with your book. Did you worry about stay hair falling out as you fed the flames? Looking forward to what you post next and to reading your book!