Get a hobby

I mean that sincerely

Jul 07, 2023

One thing that tends to surprise new authors is how, after achieving this long-time dream of selling a book and getting it published, writing the next one is . . . harder. The stakes feel higher. And the relationship with the story is changed. It’s no longer yours. Just yours, I mean. Suddenly, it’s also your agent’s and your editor’s. Moving through the process, it feels like the story belongs to more and more people and less to you, until eventually, the book is out of your hands. You’ve turned in first pass pages and, in exchange, the publisher give you several months to sit with your thoughts and feelings before eventually delivering a finished copy of the book. Then it’s with the readers.

Oh gosh. Please, let there be readers for it.

And with all those other people now having access to the thing that once belonged only to you, you have to write the next one. And the next one. And give it to them. For money.

Suddenly, the thing you were doing because it was a huge source of joy . . . has also become a job.

Obviously, writing can (and is!) a source of joy for many (most, hopefully!) authors. But it is different once you’re writing under contract, once other people start weighing in with their opinions, and once it feels like the success or failure of the book is out of your hands.

Publishing a book is enormously emotional. Before my first book released, I didn’t realize how distracting the business part of publishing could be. Not just the emails, interviews, or self-promotion efforts — things you can actually do something about — but the constant war of hope and fear. Hope that the book will do well. Fear that it won’t. Fear that it will.

It’s alarming how quickly your sense of self-worth can get tied up in your book’s performance. Not to mention the stress of needing to sell another one to pay bills. And trying to figure out how author money can pay the bills in the first place.

I could go on about that. But I won’t. Because this post is about stepping away from that mess, at least for a little while.

For me, it’s fiber arts.

I don’t know what it is for you. (But I know it’s yarn for some of you. I see you, fiber friends.) For some folks, it’s learning to play an instrument, taking an art class, working out, riding horses, or calligraphy. If you’re not sure, try a bunch of things. See what you want to go back to.

But that’s what I want to tell every author, new or experienced: Get a hobby. Do something that fulfills you in the way writing does — but isn’t writing.

And (this is an important part, especially if it’s another creative pursuit) don’t monetize it.

Let your hobby be your hobby.

Look, you don’t even have to be good at it. Just enjoy it. This is something you can do for you.

We all know about hustle culture, how toxic it can be, how it tries to tricks us into thinking that everything we do is a side gig — or at least social media content. But please let that go. You deserve rest. You deserve to have something fun that is simply fun.

All of you have probably known about my yarn thing for a while. It is one of the main aspects of my personality. I have a whole newsletter section devoted to it,1 my knits and weaves regularly show up as background elements in my photos, and I often knit something related to my newest book releases, like dragon-scale fingerless mitts, enormous wings.

But here’s the thing. No one has asked me to do that. No one is expecting it. No one is paying me to knit. When I share — or make something book related — it’s because I want to. Primarily, I make things for myself, or gifts for friends.

I’m often asked if I’ll sell the items I knit — start a little Etsy shop, maybe.

And for a minute, I did build a shop. Sort of. I prepared item descriptions, figured out pricing, told my state government that I was starting a business . . . and then I had to tell them every month that that business had not made any money, because I never listed anything in the shop, so I never sold anything. Eventually, I closed it down and immediately felt free of that lurking obligation.

Because any time I thought about selling my knitting — even something small like fingerless mitts or hats — I got this sinking feeling of having another job that turned my creative work into a product to be packaged, sent by a deadline, and then rated and reviewed. Not to mention the question of whether anyone would want to pay enough to cover the materials, let alone my time and skill. What if no one liked my stuff? What if they didn’t think it was good? What if it took so much time that I didn’t have time to knit for fun anymore? What if it cut into my writing time? How would I handle having two extremely time-consuming jobs that required immense amounts of focus, creativity, and years of experience?

It felt so overwhelming. So I stepped back and reclaimed my hobby for myself.2

It was a near miss.

Here’s something else to consider:

When you find something else you like to do, you’ll also find another community. As important as it is to have writing friends, it’s equally important to have other friends, too — people who aren’t in the publishing bubble and have no idea about the latest controversy or industry gossip. It’s important to have a way to step out of all that. Get perspective. Enjoy another community’s drama for a little while. (Oh the war between knitters who prefer metal needles and knitters who believe wooden needles are superior. . . .)

Plus, it’ll give you something to do while your brain does subconscious work on your story. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve figured out how to fix a snarl in my book while physically fixing a snarl in my yarn.

And paid subscribers will have seen my newsletter the other day — about taking time to read, let yourself be inspired, and setting work boundaries. Your hobby — whatever it is you choose — is part of that.

What are your non-writing hobbies?

How do you make time for them, along with everything else you need to do?

Jodi Spins Stories

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