writermag.com • The Writer | 11backpack full of rocks. You can do it,
but the exertion will grind you to a halt.
•••The celebration is that I can submit a
book and not have the doubts shackle
me.
My editor was kind enough to let
me send some minor corrections and
revisions a few days after I submitted
the manuscript. As soon as I did, my
mind raced through the book, looking
for mistakes and oversights and flaws
that would cause my career to flatline.
I stopped and went through my cri-
sis-to-calm checklist. I was exhausted.
When I’m tired, I veer toward self-
doubt. When I make a mistake, I’m
gripped with a queasy, harsh dread.
That feeling was absent. My system
was out of whack. I took a deep breath,
rode out the discomfort and reached
the same place: Regardless of how big
or small it is, no story is a culmination.
Everything you write is an opportunity
to improve and to learn. The same
applies to a book.
•••The celebration is I didn’t quit.
My New York City delusion was one
of many abbreviated, shitty gigs I’ve had.
I wrote and edited a slate of com-
munity magazines where getting paid
was a weekly casino game. Will this
check bounce? Will it clear? Only Bank
of America knows! That gig ended with
me getting stiffed $1,500. I wrote syn-
opses of movies nobody has ever
heard of for $10 a pop and got lam-
basted by the company’s owner when I
had the temerity to ask where my
check was. I spent a year as a commu-
nity reporter for a daily newspaper,
where I was, in human relations speak,
declared a failure by the managing
editor. (Let me tell you, kids, having
your dreams set on fire when you’re 23
is a scene.) I worked as a teen humor
blogger, even though I was an
unfunny bearded 32-year-old with a
mortgage. I spent close to four years at
a magazine where four of us cranked
out 28 issues a year. The freelance
budget was microscopic. There was no
administrative staff. I answered
phones and ordered office supplies.
Either I was stupid, or I was stub-
born. I’m not sure I’ll never know for
sure.
•••The celebration is I’m OK with where
I am.
I’ve wanted to write a book since I
was 13 years old and found that writ-
ing made me feel like I had found the
best version of myself. This book could
sell not a single copy, and I’d be con-
tent. I got paid to write what has been
living inside my mind for seven years. I
don’t want prizes or bestseller designa-
tion or raves from the literary crowd.
(The latter is doubtful. Most sports
books are greeted with the enthusiasm
of a Buick in the kitchen.) I want the
book to open one door. Maybe an edi-
tor reads it and reaches out with an
assignment. Maybe it creates an easier
path to a second book deal. Maybe
someone invites me to speak at their
conference or college.
If those things don’t happen, the
fact remains: I wrote a book. And it’s a
good one.
•••My wife wants to celebrate. I should
buy something nice, but with tax sea-
son coming up, I can’t summon the
enthusiasm to whip out my credit card.
It’s not mid-life malaise but a realiza-
tion. My professional life is a celebra-
tion; the book is the biggest float.
For now.Ithaca-based Pete Croatto is a veteran free-
lance writer who has written for The New York
Times, The Christian Science Monitor, Publishers
Weekly, Columbia Journalism Review, and many
other publications. He is also working on his
first book. Twitter: @PeteCroatto