I wrote a book

And now I'm trying to publish it

“a pencil drawing of an incomplete book, orange hues” / DALL·E

About 10 years ago, I heard a very interesting story from a friend. The story he told was about a friend of his, who I didn’t know then, and still don’t know now. I found the core premise of this story strange and fascinating and bewildering. So much so, in fact, that I couldn’t really shake it and a couple of years later decided to use a version of it as the inciting incident for a novel.

This was summer 2015, right after I’d moved to New York—the first time. I had no real idea how to write a novel, having only written a handful of short stories as part of the “creative writing emphasis” on my English degree from UC Davis. I must have searched something like “how to outline a novel” and come across the Snowflake Method, which seemed like an approachable way into what felt like a very audacious task. All you have to do is start with a one sentence summary of the novel. Then you expand that into a paragraph. Then you write a sentence about each of your main characters, spin that into a full page on their respective motivations, goals, conflicts, epiphany, and storyline. Then, well, you get the idea. You expand outward.

I spent a year slowly and inconsistently building out this…outline. There are 10 steps, by the end of which you’re supposed to have a pretty solid design for your novel, such that “the story flies out of your fingers” once you sit down to write the first draft. By summer 2016, I’d gotten through step 5, started to feel like I was basically walking through quickly drying wet cement on my way to a distant goal, and that I was using this whole outline thing partially as a way to avoid writing the actual book itself. So I finally said fuck it, and I started my first draft. Almost three years later, just as I was gearing up to move from San Francisco to New York for the second time, I finished it.

I used to be intensely protective of this creative pursuit. For a while I didn’t share it with anyone except for my mother—you’re goddamn right I said my mother, the woman who not only raised me, but edited every paper I wrote through college and has published two academic books—sending her a couple chapters at a time. There was a lot underpinning my rationale for playing coy anytime a friend expressed interest in the fact that I was writing a book, plenty of which I probably still can’t see. Nevertheless, here’s a shortlist:

• I was worried it wasn’t good

• I was unsure how to talk about it

• I definitely didn’t know how to answer the question “what’s it about?”

• It was my private thing and a refuge to turn to that no one could touch

• I was insecure! (I still am)

Bit by bit, I started to get over myself and let people read the damn thing, which at a certain point was the only way to make it better. I sent it to more of my family, I sent it to friends, I signed up for a couple writing workshops and groups to get thoughts from other writers…my girlfriend has even read it twice now. Vulnerability! What a thing. I recently finished my 8th draft of the manuscript, which included the most significant edits I’ve made yet and was based on a ton of feedback I’ve gotten over the past few years. Now, because I want to publish it the traditional way, I’m gearing up to get a literary agent, who in theory would work with me to get the book ready for editors at publishing houses, then I’d get a book deal, and then, one day, the story would become a real, physical (and e-) book you could buy.

There’s still a long way to go, and I might not even get there, but I’m pretty fucking determined to make it happen. I’m a lot more confident in what I have today than when I started writing it, and as slow-going as it’s been, I’m increasingly enjoying the process. In the worst case scenario, I’ll have produced a creative work that I’m really proud of. In the best case, I’ll turn that work into a commercial product and learn a lot about the publishing industry along the way. I think it would be cool to share in that journey, wherever it leads, so periodically I’m going to use Footbridge to share updates, maybe some snippets of the work, peeks into my writing and editing process, and so on. I hope you’ll follow along.

I guess you’ll be more invested if I give you a little nugget to hold onto for now, though, right? Yeah. That’s fair. Here you go:

My novel is called Fatherboy, and it follows a 24-year-old son of immigrants who finds out he’s a father due to an accidental pregnancy…that turns out not to be an accident.

More to come.

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