What Does Being Traditionally Published Mean to You?
A Question Every Writer Needs to Ask Themselves
This essay was inspired by my friend, cookbook author, and brilliant recipe developer Anastasia Zolotarev. She encouraged me to write down and share my thoughts on what it means to me to be traditionally published and how that meaning has changed over the years. I hope this essay inspires you to do the same.
Thank you, Anastasia!
PART I
I’m constantly in search of meaning. I always have been. After many failed attempts, I convinced myself, as many others have, that becoming a traditionally published writer would bring my life purpose. It would alleviate my fears of living a meaningless life; a life without anything to show for; a life wasted; a life I didn’t do enough with. This was just another story.
Instead of clarity or purpose, becoming traditionally published turned out to be just another faux-remedy for my endless amounts of existential dread and (vulnerability turned up to 11) my complete lack of self-worth. I must admit that repeating a simple formula of if-then does help one fall asleep at night. You know, if my work (and me) was deemed worthy of being traditionally published in print and digital media such as magazines, journals, and books then I must be someone special, and by extension I must be doing something meaningful with my life.
And let’s be honest, that’s what traditional publishing industries want us to believe. That’s the story we are being constantly sold—becoming published means things would now materialize and snap into place, doors would open, and it is the milestone that is the key to success for a writer. Or something really embarrassingly dumb like that, something naively simple that doesn’t hold up to scrutiny, but still sneakily manages to worm its way into your thoughts to mortally wound you all the damn time.
This drive for meaning made me the perfect target for this messaging. I so badly wanted something that I could latch on to some form of traditional success that would give me the validation I so desperately needed that I didn’t allow myself to get directly from my writing. How could I? Only traditionally published writing has real worth. And so, I wanted to achieve something that would solidify and signal my writing’s (and my) worth to the world like a neon sign screaming, “LOOK AT US! WE ARE FINALLY SPECIAL!”
We are often shown the version of reality where becoming published can provide a solution for thoughts like “I am not enough as I am without some definite (and traditional) marker of success.” Some external force to label us as someone special because no one is inherently special for just being themselves, it’s something you have to earn from others. And my biggest accomplishment is probably staying alive.
I also thought this was my way of making others proud, specifically my parents, who always wanted to see me make something of myself. Don’t read too heavily into my childhood, but this attitude was common when and where I grew up, but I know it is not unique to my experiences. This seems to be especially common in immigrant households, where the parents expect you to become someone deemed traditionally successful because of how much they sacrificed to give you a “better” more opportunity filled life. Otherwise, what was it all for?
PART II
To be honest, there was a period in my life when I believed that becoming a traditionally published writer would solve all my problems. My parents would finally be proud of me for my (and by extension) their achievements. My self-worth and confidence would magically show up and stay with me for all eternity shortly after becoming a published writer. I would finally feel truly accomplished, like I did something important. Turns out some brains struggle to feel a sense of real accomplishment.
And everything else would fall into place. There would be some regularity, a guaranteed path forward to follow with milestones and checkpoints. Thinking about it now, it is easy to see that some writers and artists are prone, not solely through a fault of their own, since it is often framed for us this way, to conflate becoming an average traditionally published writer with becoming a very successful traditionally published writer. Seems almost too obvious and embarrassing to admit, but I can’t be the only one who falls for such a shiny promise of a literary life we see in movies and books
In her 1994 book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, Anne Lamott encourages writers to think about what it really means to them to be published. Most importantly she cautions against treating being published as some kind of magic potion for their problems, especially the emotional wounds that we often expect it to heal. That simply will not happen.
Focusing and making becoming published your priority is the equivalent of waiting for prince charming—waiting for publishing to rescue you from yourself and from all your problems.
Becoming a traditionally published author will not bring you ever lasting inner peace if your whole existence is defined by an endless search for meaning.
This is just another misguided attempt at seeking external validation to heal our traumas and inner worlds, a type of self-medication that you prescribed yourself (with some strong peer-pressure from society of course). It seems obvious when you’re standing further away from it, but up-close that pursuit of validation is just a pale siren’s call.
PART III
It was hard enough to learn (and then accept) the fact that becoming traditionally published didn’t come with any type of financial stability or security. I once asked my agent at the time how much she thought I would get paid by the publisher to write the book, and she had to explain to me that publishers don’t pay writers an “income” for the actual labor of writing the book, the advance is for “making” (and marketing) the book. Therefore, getting a book deal with a publishing house doesn’t mean you can suddenly stop working. Publishers need their writers to have their own separate streams of income because the vast majority of advances for nonfiction writers are tiny.
It was even harder to then also accept the fact that the actual act of becoming traditionally published wouldn’t bring me any type of inner peace, deep fulfillment, or meaning that I have been after. At that point it was clear that I had to decouple my search for meaning from publishing. And so I began to dismantle the story I was bought into by doing the work of addressing my needs and healing my traumas head on.
Gradually, through much internal resistance and external pressures, I gave myself permission to be fully content and derive deep meaning from the process of writing, instead of first waiting for the external validation of getting my writing published before I could allow myself to feel those things. In other words, I stopped waiting for someone to give me permission and tell me my work was worthy or deserving of my joy. As if I wasn’t enough to ascribe real value to my own work.
I felt free. Liberated from unnecessary expectations around all my different types of writing (and myself for that matter). I was able to separate the process of writing from needing to achieve any type of traditional literary success such as getting a book deal, featured story in a magazine, you name it. And most importantly I allowed myself to fully embrace just how fulfilling it is to publish the majority of my work by non-traditional means such as making zines, keeping a journal, writing autofiction, and lots of note-taking. Truth be told, I’m counter-cultural through and through, not sure why I thought pursuing traditional publishing would be an environment I could thrive in. It’s very hard for me to participate within mainstream ____ fill in the blank.
For a long time a part of me didn’t allow myself to believe that making zines was enough. Society has a way of signaling this message. Some things people do are treated and portrayed as more important and valuable than others. Just another story we were sold. Turns out making zines is absolutely enough, for me, not so much my parents, but that’s what self-acceptance is for. Now I can proudly say that making zines with my partner is much more than enough, it is one of the most meaningful parts of my life.
PART IV
It is also worth stating that traditionally publishing one’s work just means you are ready or maybe it is more accurate to say, you are motivated to share your writing with the general public aiming to achieve some (usually very little) degree of mainstream success. You have an urge to share the prose, the story, the research, the topic, or the mission of the work you have written.
The motivation for publishing one’s writing traditionally is largely about the desire to share what you have created or uncovered with as large of an audience as possible while contributing and participating in mainstream culture.
This definition of traditionally publishing my work was at the forefront of my motivation to publish as many Ukrainian recipes and stories as I could. I wanted to help make Ukrainian food a part of mainstream American food media and culture, which would then create a market for Ukrainian cookbooks, books, shows, etc., which would in turn help preserve those aspects of Ukrainian and Ukrainian-American culture for that matter.
My first cookbook proposal on preserving the diversity of Ukraine’s culinary cultures and baking traditions, I spent months working on, was attempting to do the same. The story I wrote on Crimean-Tatar culinary culture for EATEN magazine was trying to shed light on the continued oppression, discrimination, and injustices endured by Crimean-Tatars at the hands of the Russian Federation and the seminal role Crimean-Tatar women have played in preserving the culinary culture of Crimean-Tatars.
For a while I was convinced that this approach was the only meaningful way I could help preserve the culinary traditions of Ukraine. Traditions that are under constant threat of erasure by a power-hungry racist piece of shit neighbor. I believed that the more people I could get to cook Ukrainian recipes, read Ukrainian stories, and learn about Ukrainian cuisine, the higher the likelihood those things had of surviving and leading to some form of positive change.
And I still want to continue sharing Ukrainian recipes, stories, and food history but I want to do it in more sustainable, creative, and non-traditional ways. Like my borsch zine or Ukrainian bake goods zine. I also want to explore the artistic and creative nature of writing as a cultural preservation practice. As a kid, I used to write a lot of autofiction, I guess most would call it that. Something just between reality and fiction. Something where the elements of truth were superseded by my desire to tell a story about who I am or who we are as human beings. I recently came across an autofiction writing course through Off Assignment taught by Aube Rey Lescure.
There is no one right way of participating in cultural preservation of my cultures. As a third culture kid, I am exactly the best person to try and preserve Ukrainian cuisine via traditional publishing. My story is too messy and complicated for a neat narrative most publishers want from their cookbooks.
From time to time a part of me still wishes that becoming published would solve all my problems, be it familial, financial, mental, you name it. But now I focus on healing my own inner world and creating works that stimulate my creative appetites and curiosities with no expectations or conditions applied.
Next week’s newsletter will be a deep dive into my recent gelato experiments. We will take a closer look at stabilizers that are most commonly used in home and professional gelato making.
I’m actually thinking of publishing less polished posts where I straight up share notes that I take in my kitchen during recipe testing/development. I would write about my attempts, ingredients, recipes I tested, the ups (and lots of downs), lessons, observations, things to avoid, etc.
Validity. A good publisher has inroads with all kinds of book adjacency firms, public relations chains, etc etc. Also, they know the awards circuit and they can see your work from the outside, meaning they can figure out how to slot it for exposure in ways you can’t. But most of all, it means being recognized. That matters to me.
I will be the first of many I’m sure who will buy your borsch zine and other zines!