The Writing Rollercoaster: My Journey to Publication

You’ve heard it a million times: Writing is a rollercoaster. But like any familiar phrase, it can lose its meaning over time—its truth dulled by repetition. So allow me to offer a fresh case study for this famous writing adage, one I hope will comfort and inspire and remind us all why it’s worth staying on for the bumpy ride.

(18 Literary Agents Repping Debut Authors.)

I didn’t always know I wanted to be a writer—or at least, I didn’t allow myself to accept it. As a kid, I loved being creative: playing with my dollhouse, drawing pictures, writing books as gifts for my parents. But becoming an author seemed as impossible as becoming a movie star; I was far too pragmatic.

Then, during my sophomore year of college, I stumbled into my first creative writing class and became quickly, quietly obsessed. My professor was amazing (his praise my first rollercoaster high), and I finally admitted that if I could do anything, writing would be the dream.

A few creative writing classes still weren’t enough to derail my Type A plan. After graduating with a degree in strategic communications, I landed a competitive internship at an ad agency back home in Minneapolis. It was a great experience—complete with chic, creative people and happy hours on the roof of its North Loop building—but I kept thinking: Is this it?

Finally, I told myself I had to at least try writing seriously. I’d apply to MFA programs, and if I got in and received funding, I’d go. I stomached many rejection letters, and just as I was beginning to spiral, I lurched upward with a life-affirming acceptance and teaching assistantship from George Mason University.

People have many different opinions about MFA programs, but I firmly believe their value depends on who you are and why, at your core, you’re there. For me, a 23-year-old eager for a tangible way to see myself as a writer, the program was perfect. Those were some of the happiest years of my life.

At the same time, many of the well-known traps of MFA programs proved true: I focused on short stories, beautiful sentences, and earning the approval of my craft-focused peers and professors. The closest thing I had to a publishing strategy was deciding to write a novel rather than a story collection.

After graduation, I started the comedown: As I fumbled my way through a dark literary novel, I began to sense a difficult “real-world” road ahead.

Despite struggling with the novel, after following my new husband’s Army job to Germany, I was fortunate to have the time and space to continue writing. With few other responsibilities that year, I poured myself into the book, sending drafts to workshop partners, and rewriting the manuscript from beginning to end at least three times.

I began querying in the fall of 2017—and the query slog proved true: While I received many requests for the full manuscript, I heard the now-triggering phrase, “I’m going to have to step aside,” again and again.

Soon, I began anticipating a slap every time I checked my inbox. But just as I was getting used to the sting, I received one incredible offer of representation in the fall of 2018.

Signing with that agent was euphoric—a new peak in my writing life. Yet as they say, the higher the climb, the steeper the fall, and two years later, I hit a new low.

I realized that my agent, while a fabulous person, was not prioritizing my novel or my career. It often took her months to respond, and even then, I felt like an afterthought. With the support of my writing friends, I finally made the painful decision to part ways and return to the query trenches.

This time, however, I was in a better position. The book was stronger, and several writing retreats had helped me build a community of published friends. One of those friends introduced me to the person who would eventually become my agent: Danya Kukafka.

Danya requested a revise-and-resubmit of my novel before she offered representation, but that January—after months of incorporating her edits—we made it contract official. I remember speaking to her while vacationing in San Diego, staring at the beach and knowing in my bones that she was my person. From there, we did one last round of revision, and in April of 2021 we went on submission to editors across the board.

In a movie, the story would end there: Publishing houses would fight over my novel, a dazzling offer would arrive, and all would be said and done. But this is the writing rollercoaster... and that novel did not sell.

The rejections were encouraging, and I tried to remind myself that at that stage, so much comes down to subjectivity and—much as I hate to admit it—luck. Still, of course, I wallowed. I wondered whether I had wasted years of my life. Yet I also felt a new, gritty sense of challenge; I felt like a dizzy boxer, staggering back to my feet, emboldened.

A few months after the first novel failed to sell, I changed course. I dug through my dusty desktop folders to find a project I had started years earlier, during the long stretches spent waiting for my first agent to respond. It was a “just-for-fun” beach read inspired by my time working at a Minnesota country club. I hadn’t shown the pages to anyone, but writing them had always felt joyful. So desperate for a fresh start, I pitched the idea to Danya. Although it fell outside her usual genres, she told me to go for it.

Nothing that followed was easy. I was also learning a new genre, and I changed points of view, storylines, and structures over and over, rewriting the book in full at least seven times. However, I was no longer the precious MFA student clinging to beautiful sentences and favorite scenes. Knowing I would probably rewrite everything anyway, I focused instead on character, narrative structure, and everything I felt I had gotten wrong before.

Three years later, we went back on submission.

At that point, my husband and I were living in Europe again, but in August 2024 we were being sent back to DC. I was feeling depressed about the move—and I was at a personal low on the night we were set to fly back stateside, reeling after saying goodbye to local friends and preparing our two dogs to fly cargo on our 4 a.m. flight. I also couldn’t help but feel that if the novel didn’t sell soon, I’d have to pivot careers upon returning to DC.

Then, just before midnight, an email from Danya (who was nine hours behind on the West Coast) pinged on my phone: An editor at William Morrow wanted to talk ASAP.

Needless to say, I cried.

From there, everything clicked into place. The editor, Ariana Sinclair, was brilliant and a perfect match for the book; I once again felt, in my bones, that this was right. I accepted her offer, and we spent the next two years preparing for publication. Today, The Lake Club is out in the world.

Any writer reading this could probably name the obvious rollercoaster takeaways: Don’t jump ship. Ride it out. Take the highs with the lows.

All of them are true.

But I would add one more: Most people see you only at your peaks, waving down to the crowd. And yet it’s the times you spend at the bottom—when, alone, you keep going without any guarantee of success—that are the most worth celebrating. They reveal more about you than any view at the top ever could.

After all, it’s easy to avoid failure and self-doubt if you never risk anything. Plenty of people coast through life, playing it safe, protecting themselves from disappointment. But a flat life, like a flat rollercoaster (we’re gonna milk this metaphor for all it’s worth!), would be pretty boring. Good or bad, there’d be no reason to fill your lungs, stare up into the sky, and scream.

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