In our Debut Author Spotlight series, authors contribute essays about the path to the publication of their first book. In this installment, Glori Simmons talks about writing the stories that would comprise her first two collections. She, at first, thought of them as one book and she began to write them as a distraction from the novel that she was working on during her Stegner Fellowship in 2003. Glori Simmons’ collection Carry You came out from Autumn House Press on March 7.

“Three presidents later, American troops are still in Iraq and what I began as a side project was now two full-length books informed by parenthood, marriage, work and time. Life had happened and through it all, my writing had evolved.”

People may see that I have had two books of short stories published in consecutive years and think I’m a prolific or fast writer. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I began the first three linked stories that would become Suffering Fools and Carry You around 2003. I was a Stegner fellow working fulltime in a University art gallery. The U.S. was at war. The short stories were a distraction from the novel I was supposed to be writing, an exercise in form, one story unfolding from another, all set in the present. They were organic, gratifying and fun to write, but I was working on a novel set in another place and time.

When the fellowship ended, I focused on the novel. Its publication was the milestone I was seeking. I got an agent. I gave birth to a daughter. The market crashed. I moved from San Francisco to Oakland. Whenever I turned to the short stories, it felt as if I were having an affair—cheating on the novel. They felt fresh and were a way for me to understand the present day events even as I wrote and revised, but never sold, the novel. Meanwhile, the war in Iraq escalated and then officially ended and then we again sent in more forces. All that while, the Shepherd family kept finding their way to the page. The main character, Clark, had gone to war too.

By the time the stories were ready, my agent had quit the business. Another told me the stories worked well, but needed more—more Iraq, more war. I made excuses, stalled, and then spent two years attempting to write stories set in a country in which I’d never stepped foot. I had a new, more demanding job and a kid in public school. I finally sent the new manuscript off to the agent who’d encouraged me to write more. He said, “thanks, but no thanks.” After more rejections, I looked over my stories. They were unruly as a group and lacked balance. Could it be with a few of my non-linked stories (yes, I’d cheated while I was cheating) that I had two manuscripts? I thought so. I sent them off to small press contests and was pleasantly surprised when they were chosen for publication. Of the trilogy that started this journey, only one of the stories contains the original experiment. Another has been shelved. What was once contemporary fiction is now historical fiction.

As I reflect on the years between the first stories and the last, I am reminded of something a friend once said, “Life happens between books.” Focusing on publication of my first project, the novel, as the ultimate form of legitimacy, had often made it seem as if the hours at my desk were amounting to nothing. It felt, correctly, as if I was not in control of the process. In those moments, it was tempting to ignore my new obsessions or see the other parts of my life as superfluous or intrusions, instead of what they were—stories unfolding, challenges shaping my perspectives and experiences that would make me a better writer. Three presidents later, American troops are still in Iraq and what I began as a side project was now two full-length books informed by parenthood, marriage, work and time. Life had happened and through it all, my writing had evolved.

by Glori Simmons author of Carry You (Autumn House Press, March 2018) and Suffering Fools (Willow Springs Books, March 2017)

Today, we are excited to debut our Debut Author Spotlight series with a contribution from the wonderful Michael Andreasen, whose first collection The Sea Beast Takes A Lover came out from Dutton at the end of February. Our Debut Author Spotlight series aims to illuminate the work of exciting new authors as their first releases hit the shelves. Authors contribute essays that talk about their path to publication; whether it be the inspiration for their book, finding motivation, connecting with an agent, or designing their book cover—these personal essays help demystify the publishing process. In our inaugural installment, Michael Andreasen talks about the importance of finding a group of writers who will give you valuable feedback and hold you accountable. Sometimes a little pressure is a good thing.

“Writers will tell you that they write for themselves, that they write to see worlds born and dreams realized, and I suppose that might be true, but that ain’t all of it. At least not for me. I write so that the people I love and admire will say, ‘I liked that story. Tell me another.'”

I don’t remember how long I had quit writing for, but it was long enough that I remember thinking: I guess that’s it. I guess I’m done with writing.

I was maybe a year out of an MFA program—a program which had been great, by the way. Great teachers and smart readers and a handful of dedicated, insanely talented friends—everything you could want, which made the quitting feel that much worse. It wasn’t writer’s block, which has always been described to me as a kind of artistic constipation, all those pressurized ideas desperate to get out. What I felt was the opposite of pressure. Nothing was coming because nothing was expected, least of all by me. I’d never encountered this in my conversations with other writers. For them it always seemed a lack of time was the problem, or a dearth of ideas, or a demoralizing parade of rejections. I wasn’t getting rejected for the simple reason that I wasn’t sending anything out. There didn’t seem to be any reason to. You hear about muses leaving and lives changing, but no one ever tells you that you might wake up one day and feel that most crucial desire—the desire to tell someone a story—gone as the goddamn ghost.

Flash forward farther than I’d care to admit: I’m at a party with some friends from my writing program, because we’re all still in the area and we’re all still friends. We reminisce about workshop. We admit that the things we used to dread about it—the deadlines, the critiques, the obligation to dig deep and excavate the very best within us—we miss those things now. We want them back. We hatch a scheme to start workshopping again, just the four of us, just a little, just to see. We propose a meeting the following month.

I hadn’t had the heart to tell them I’d quit. I didn’t want them to think I’d gotten soft and atrophied. Oh god, had I gotten soft and atrophied? Was I about to embarrass myself in front of these dedicated, insanely talented people whose work I adored? I needed to get home. I needed to get writing…

And out of nowhere, there it was: the pressure. I was an idiot. I hadn’t wanted to write for so long because I hadn’t had anyone to write for, no one who knew me and knew my stories and wanted to see more of them in the world. And not just anyone, but these amazing people whose stories I loved and whose approval I craved. Writers will tell you that they write for themselves, that they write to see worlds born and dreams realized, and I suppose that might be true, but that ain’t all of it. At least not for me. I write so that the people I love and admire will say, “I liked that story. Tell me another.”

It’s been almost a decade since I came back to writing. I still meet with the same friends (again: dedicated), all of whom now have at least one book with their name on the spine (again: insanely talented), and as of last February, so do I. We’re all in each other’s acknowledgements, and we’ve all admitted to each other that we might not have this work if not for the group. We don’t meet as often as we used to, but we’re still writing for each other, and whenever there’s new work, there’s an email, and a discussion, and all the insight and incisiveness that can only come from years of reading each other. They know when I’m off my game, and they tell me. They let me experiment and help me hone. They’re the people I’m writing for, the ones I want to impress, the source of that pressure and responsibility that I need to keep going. “I like that story,” they say to me. “Tell me another.”

Get yourself some people. Find them anywhere you can. Find one, just one, who reads you well, who can be honest without being cruel, who can notice your strengths and nurture them. Write to impress them. Write to entertain and enthrall them. Give them the best story you’ve got, and then another, and another, and never, ever let them out of your sight.