goodbye, december; and thank you, 2024

the ghosts of year's end past, present, and future

At the end of 2021, I went on a trip with some friends to ring in the new year. It was my first time traveling post-pandemic, and I remember being absolutely giddy with the joy of getting to do something new again—everything tasted delicious, sleep didn’t matter, vulnerability felt easy, and inside jokes from that trip still make me cry laughing.

I had also just finished a revision of the book I was about to submit to the Pitch Wars showcase, and on New Year's Eve, I shared with them a bit about the process, about my hopes and dreams for that book. I wanted to be a writer so badly, but I still wasn't talking about it much. People were shocked to realize just how much time I spent on this thing, how this was somehow the fourth book I had mostly-secretly taken through ground-up revisions, had queried to agents.

I caught up with one of these friends at a holiday party this year, and he somewhat nervously asked if I was still writing. He wasn't sure where this dream had gone, felt bad for not asking about it more recently. He was clearly worried he was going to open a wound, but was willing to risk it for the sake of connecting around something he knew had once deeply, deeply mattered to me. I think he was nervous when I said, yeah, that book didn’t make it—nor did the next one—and the one I started after that is very much still in progress—but oh, the smile he smiled when I told him that there’s another one I’ll be able to put in his hands one year from now. Lucky number seven.

A few days later, a newer but very dear friend gave me the chance to reflect on what I’ve learned this year. What do I want to celebrate?

The feeling that came to mind was the peace I felt when answering my friend at that holiday party. And not because of the external reality of my writing life, but the internal one.

A year ago, Harper and Dawson weren’t even a twinkle in my eye. They stepped onto the page in January because their voices felt so right. Because, instead of the questions that had been swirling in my mind for years—am I good enough, do I deserve this, will I ever make it, is everyone laughing at me, will my friends leave me behind, am I deluding myself and everyone knows except for me—I thought: let’s just have some fun. And I got out of my own way.

So much has changed this year. But the biggest change has been the way it’s allowed me to see myself differently. I am essentially the same writer I was in December 2023. Better, of course, because I hope I get better every day week month and year—but ultimately, still the same. And oh, the way I get so sad for the me that was sure she was an imposter that had snuck into this party and was about to get tossed out any minute now. And so sad for the friends who feel that way, too—the ones I know are brilliant, the ones whose books will be someone’s favorites one day.

I’m so, so lucky for the ways my external writing life has changed this year. And I know it is in many ways so easy for me to say this from the other side of the lucky break. But I guess my point is: if my perspective on myself can change so much with one email, why couldn’t I flip my self-image on my own? Why couldn’t I enjoy the process, and lighten up, and trust that being creative is its own reward, and that I need it to survive, and that if I keep following my gut and my joy and my heart things will line up just as they should.

So, when I was asked to reflect on the year, I started thinking about the thing I needed to hear, and want all of us creative souls to hear as much as possible: You're a writer before you have an agent, or a deal, or a bestseller list, or whatever it is you’re chasing. Lots changes as those milestones are reached, but a lot of the important things don’t change at all. Sitting down to do the work. Puzzling through a plot problem. Bubbling over with joy as you figure out what makes your characters tick. Losing track of time when you immerse yourself in the flow of finding just the right word.

It’s not like people didn’t tell me that before—some very wise friends tried. (Many times.) I just wish I’d let myself believe it. Wish I'd let myself enjoy that process more, because there was nothing wrong or lesser about me, and I needed to write every single one of those books for different reasons.

This feels like one of those moments where time collapses and you realize everything is so much simpler than it sometimes feels. I’m thinking about the Emily of three years ago (and two, and one…) who was so afraid she didn’t belong, and the Emily of right now who’s found some peace in wondering if that’s maybe not the right question, and the Emily of one year from now who will shockingly, incredibly, humblingly have a book out in the world.

I hope she’s able to cling to this feeling as much as possible. I know there will be plenty in 2025 that could make her feel small again. But I hope she’s able to place those moments against this vaster view, and remember this swelling of gratitude, and this sense of perspective, and this great gladness for all that writing has given her so far.

So I guess this is a letter to anyone who measures themselves with a ruler that’s always an inch short, and a letter to myself to open again whenever I might need it.

This newsletter felt like a stand-alone, poured out in one rush of grateful reflection, and as many things as I loved this month—this year—it didn’t quite feel right to combine them in the usual format. Maybe I’ll do another installment of favorite things?

But for now, I love you all very very much, and wish for you the gentlest end to 2024 and the most beautiful start to 2025, and would love to hear any of your year-end revelations, if you have them. 🤍

P.S. In the last week or so while this newsletter was marinating, I read Jordan Gray’s beautiful IG post on similar themes, which says all of this much more eloquently. Highly recommend.