Chapter 180: Limbo, or Between Stories

And so you have written. And you are pleased. The work is behind you. The story is in front of you. You hear words of praise and take a measure of delight as you think back on the long, arduous and ultimately rewarding journey that has brought you to this joyous moment.

But now the pleasure begins to dissipate. Happiness gives way to unsettledness. You try to keep the euphoria aloft like a beach ball bouncing from fan to fan at an arena, even as you begin to hear a familiar voice you had kept at bay for days, or weeks, or months.

It is the voice that says: So you’re done. What comes next?

The time between stories can be as unsettling as the time between romances. A love story ends and before another begins you wonder and worry whether you will ever find joy again. Heartbreak be damned. Like wrong turns that render a story launched with excitement and promise into a quagmire filled with self doubt and second guessing.

And yet, as with love, we find ourselves needing to start all over again, each time with the knowledge of what will await us, even as we hope that maybe this time things will be different.

I hate the time between stories. I try to end it as quickly as I can, and as with hasty and unwise decisions about love I have at times found myself in the throes of a story that does not feel at all right but that I seized upon because I was more afraid of the void.

I wondered whether I was alone, whether other writers experienced the maddening in-between as I did. And if they did, what they did.

So I asked.

This is what they said.

Andrea Elliott: New York Times journalist and author: The greater my love for whatever story I am in, the deeper the dread that accompanies me to the finish line. Why can't I just feel relieved to be done and move on? Maybe the answer is that I give all of myself to one thing at one time, which leaves me motionless when it's done. Other writers thrive when juggling projects so there is no single start or finish, just a commotion of stories. I can't do that. When I finish, I am standing in a wide open field. I think the trick is to see it as that -- a glorious field of untold stories.

Miles Corwin, author and professor: When I'm working on a book or a lengthy article, I usually have little time to read the books that have stacked up on my night table. So, when I complete a project I usually like to take some time and finish a few books I've been waiting to read. But during this same time, there's a question that constantly bedevils me, consciously or subconsciously, that I can't ignore: What's next?

Michael Scherer, The Atlantic: I think a lot of this is medium dependent. Back in the day, when most of my readers were in print magazines, this did not seem such a stretch, since magazines tend to last on the newsstand and exist in space. Even writing for a bimonthly, an article in every issue can feel fulfilling. But the physical artifact is largely gone, in newspapers and magazines. Most readers are on phones, which is a transient space, like the print equivalent of a radio broadcast. So I have tended to lean more on the Glengarry Glen Ross model of needing to always be closing. Less widgets the worse I feel. Two, three or four widgets a week, I'm good.

With no print hole to limit me at the Washington Post, I tended to always lean on publishing something, even if it would not make it in print. Back in the blog days, it became its own addiction. The switch to the Atlantic has meant a bit of recalibration, and I have been trying to keep my cool in the increasing space between. Honestly though, the work is so busy and unrelenting that I am okay with it. Until this last piece I published this week, I had gone nearly a month with only one other story I did during a period of editing. Another thing to say is that the collapse of Twitter as a place for journalism has also impacted this. Back in the day, any lull in publication could be soothed with short news bits, analysis and being a part of that larger conversation. But X is broken, and has become actively hostile to the kind of fact-based, cited work I do. (The algorithm punishes posts if there are links.) And nothing has replaced it, though Bluesky is trying. That is an adjustment, too.

Alexander Stille: author and professor: In only one case have I finished a book knowing what I wanted to work on next with a book idea in my head.

Generally speaking, my main reaction after finishing a book is relief. After finishing my last book I was just very happy not to be writing a book. It feels good to be doing journalism, to be working on pieces that I know I will finish in my lifetime. Then gradually, after a period of time, usually a couple of years, I start to feel itchy, that something important is missing from my life. There is a level of engagement in working on a book -- a project I am totally committed to -- that is very special and that I start to feel the need for. At the same time, I have tried to avoid working on a book just to have a book to work in. The difficulty -- as with romance -- is you have to really feel it, you have to fall in love with a project to summon the energy to write a book. It has to be something that grabs you by the hair and compels you, something that feels necessary -- at least to you. It's really hard work and every project will have moments of extreme frustration, roadblocks, dark nights of the soul when it is not working well and to get through those moments you have to be in love with your project. And so the time between books requires patience, when the itchy feeling comes over you, you begin looking around for possible books-- exploring possible ideas to accelerate the process a bit -- but you can't really force it, you have to wait until it feels right.

Meryl Gordon, author and professor: I feel your pain, and you feel mine. The time between projects can be very frustrating, as you cast around for another idea that engages you. Typically, in the last throes of finishing a book, I throw all health concerns to the winds, and once I am done, usually the first thing I do is try to get healthy again -- rejoin the gym, go for walks, cut back on the chocolate fudge brownie ice cream that got me through the writing.

I try to say yes to all invites, in the hopes of meeting people/doing things will give me ideas and inspiration for a new book.

Brian Rosenthal, investigative reporter, The New York Times: I love the romance analogy. It's so true for me. I tend to think of it just slightly differently. Here's what I'd say:

I usually enter the period between projects with excitement, as I'm typically ready to move on and obsess over something new. That feeling disappears quickly. It's replaced by panic and indecision. I never like any of my ideas. Every day without a perfect new story feels like a crushing failure. Soon I convince myself that I have no idea what I'm doing, that the only reason I've found projects in the past is that I was lucky. I live with this anxiety until I inevitably land on something. Then it vanishes, at least temporarily. I suspect that it goes somewhere to lie in wait until the cycle repeats again.

Samuel G. Freedman, author and professor: I went through nearly a year of frantically searching for another topic, and in that futility I learned the important lesson that you can't force or hurry the kind of combination of brainstorm and love affair that your next book topic should be. I was sunk so deep in frustration and self-pity that I even tried to talk myself out of what did become the topic for my next book.

But I vowed never again to torture myself the way I had, never again to expect myself to conjure up a book topic on demand. In the 25 years since then, I've often chosen some kind of passion project to fill part of my work life until I get the next book idea. While my author's brain focused on those passion projects, I let the months and even years pass without anxiety till I landed on the topic for the next book. Getting older helped, too. When you're in your 50s, then 60s, soon 70s, and when you've written a number of books already, you don't feel the self-imposed pressure to be back in print in a hurry.

Dale Maharidge, author and professor: I hate the feeling of having nothing in the hopper. So most of the time I already have another book lined up. I'm often working on two books at once, when possible, so that there is no down time. The only exception was the 1990s, when I literally went off grid behind the Redwood Curtain in California, to build a homestead. Once I came out of that, it's pretty much been project to project to project.

* * *

If you have a question, a problem in your work, if you are feeling lost, stuck, confused, at sea, searching, grappling, or baffled, email me at Michaelshapiro808@gmail.com and tell me what you’re confronting and what help you need.

It is seldom, if ever, the case that one student’s problem or question is their’s alone.

Please indicate if you want to remain anonymous, have your name or just first name included. I will include the question and then answer it as best I can.

* * *

Nothing good ever came from writers punishing themselves. We know writing is hard. We’re here to show that it doesn’t have to be torture