I don't know how to write a manuscript

on 100 submissions, 5 practices to keep it going, and our patron saint, Jo March

In the last scene of Greta Gerwig’s Little Women (2019), Jo March stands outside the window as her beloved manuscript is printed on a press, the crimson leather cover hand-sewn over the stack of thick pages. It has been a long, emotional tide of sleepless nights, of handwritten pages strewn about, of rejections and edits by her editor, of family tragedy, of learning what it is to become a woman, and write her own thoughts about it. The printer walks to her and hands her a copy of her novel, a written portrait of her family. She holds the book close to her chest, and a small, deeply satisfied grin forms on her lips. This tangible, tactile object in her arms represents every moment that has come before. We see her look of quiet triumph, and the credits roll. 

When Little Women came out in December of 2019, I was on the cusp of my own writing journey. I’d written approximately two poems during my new adult life, and I felt directionless. But after weeping through the whole second half of the film, I caught the Jo March bug.   

Like Jo, I wanted to write, yearned for the feeling of seeing my work on the page. I had friends who were doing it (and a friend who was in the process of having a manuscript published), and it felt accessible to me. Like the printing press was right around the corner for me to dash in and hand them my stack of handwritten papers; they would thank me for providing them exactly what the world needed, and bestow a beautiful leather-bound book in my waiting fingers. 

However, as it turns out, many many people are also trying to be Jo March, and the lines stretch out the door of the proverbial printing presses, winding around the corner and down the block. And I hate to say it, but picking up your latest manuscript draft in a brown paper envelope from the Office Max down the road does not elicit that same feeling of exuberance as we see from Jo.

Unfortunately, it turns out that writing something that people (a) think is good, (b) want to read, (c) fits with what else they’re publishing, and (d) is original at all, is near impossible. This is not to mention that you have to sit down in your chair, write something you think is moderately not-bad, edit it, decide it’s finished, figure out how to organize it (or just slap the poem in there) among a few other pieces you’ve already written, gird your loins, and send it out into the electronic void, fingers crossed that somebody (please God, somebody) likes it. 

One might ask: why do I do this to myself, regularly?

What is it about writing, about doing anything with a tedious, somewhat agonizing process, that keeps us coming back?

The phrase that recurs in my mind these days, every time I sit down to write or edit or lay the papers of my manuscript all over the floor of my room is I DON’T KNOW HOW TO WRITE A MANUSCRIPT. What do you do when you feel like this thing is in you, but you don’t know what you’re doing? You don’t know how to start?

What do you do when you feel like you’ve exhausted your books, your skills, your resources, your creativity? When pieces—moments—are pretty good, but the whole feels frustrating and just messy?

jo's papers & my papers

Somehow, almost 5 years after watching Little Women, I have two mostly-finished (still unpublished) manuscripts, and as of last Thursday, 100 submissions to literary magazines and journals (!!!) I’ve been published 17 out of those 100 times (the 16th & 17th forthcoming), and that is an incredible accomplishment for which I am very grateful. 

I’ve still not reached that color-graded, hug your book in your arms experience I was expecting half a decade ago, but this also isn’t to say that there haven’t been real glimpses of it along the way. It’s been painful and delightful. There have been tears and overjoyed shrieks, jealousy of others’ work and pride in my own. As it happens often, two opposing things are true at the same time. Beauty and terror, you know? 

I keep coming back because words, stories, poems, beauty, change things. They are “the tiniest nail(s) in the house of the universe, tiny but useful.” Oh, I want to be useful in this world, in the small, ordinary, wild way I know how. 

So, in honor of 5 years, 2 manuscripts, and 100 subs, here are 5 things I’ve learned in this writing/submitting process that I hope might spur you on to your own greatness too, whether you are starting out your vocation or are a seasoned professional at that which makes your heart beat passionately.

The process is universal, most of the time. 

Number One: You don’t know what you’re doing. So what? Keep going. 

The phrase I know where I want to be, but I don’t know how to get there used to be the theme of my life. I didn’t know how to begin without having the whole quest mapped out for me. How do you travel across the land in the magical way people seem to do it? 

Over time, however, through tears and practicing the great art of beginning, I’ve realized that nobody has a map. All we get to direct us, most of the time, are our headlights illuminating the three feet in front us, leading us down a long stretch of highway in the dark. 

Not once during this whole writing process have I known how to do something entirely before I’ve started. I am learning how to begin, and how to persist, even if I don’t do it right. I am learning that every day is practicing, not a frantic trying to force things to turn out just right. 

It’s practicing living as the person I want to be. If you want to be a person who writes books, practice writing a book, even if you hit roadblocks along the way.

There’s a poem that my friends and I used to say over and over during our senior year of college that is the undercurrent for my own art-making. I’ll share it here: 

God bless the ground. 
I shall walk softly there, 
and learn by going
where I have to go. 

Number Two: Hold on tightly, let go lightly. Accept rejection as a gift. Use it, celebrate it, learn from it. 

As annoying and cliche as it is, there is something to that old adage: there’s no such thing as bad feedback. 

I always tell my theater students during brainstorms sessions to hold on tightly, let go lightly. Fight for what you want, but if it doesn’t work out—if it’s not serving the piece—let it go. Trust other eyes, and accept the feedback you receive, even if the feedback includes phrases like:

• the metaphor is repeated to the point of diminishing returns

• could benefit from more unexpected imagery or insights

• lacks a strong sense of closure, leaving the reader without a satisfying resolution

(actual recent feedback)

I hate reading stuff like that. I’d much rather hear that my work is brilliant and genius, but (as we all know and hate to admit) we improve when we open ourselves up to honesty. We become stronger, more humble, kinder people in the long run, and we also might make better things. 

When I finished my 100th submission, Casey asked me, “what would you say to your past self who was just starting out?”

I replied, “Don’t get so hung up on rejection. It’ll happen a lot, and it doesn’t mean you’re a garbage writer. It just means it’s not the right fit, and God has something better for you.”

Most rejections don’t provide feedback. In that case, it’s key to practice not taking it too seriously. Trust your gut, and keep moving forward. The right fit for you is out there; you just haven’t found it yet. 

Number 3: Keep track, refer back. 

Know where you’re going and where you’ve been! 

For writers: 

Keep track of all your submissions, what you’ve sent in, where you’ve sent it, and what the result of the submission is. (Also, add the date! I didn’t do that this time around, and I will be making that adjustment going forward.)

Red is rejected, Yellow is accepted, Blue is pending

For everyone: 

Pay attention to where you’re putting yourself out there, and take note of where that effort is sticking or where you’re facing resistance. Spend time reflecting. Where do you feel most like yourself? What can you do to be intentional about where you’re being brave, where your energy is going? How you can practice doing whatever that is in a different way? 

Number 4: READ A LOT! 

This one is self explanatory. Learn from people farther ahead who are doing it better than you. 

Don’t just read books about how to do something, but read stories of humans who are doing it. If you’re a poet, read a ton of poetry. If you’re an actor, read (or watch) brilliant plays. If you’re a teacher, read a memoir of an exceptional teacher. You get my drift. Let yourself be radiantly inspired, and ride that wave during difficult seasons. 

P.S. For my writers: if you submit to something but don’t get accepted, do yourself a favor and do not read that particular edition of the collection/journal/anthology/mag that rejected you. Don’t torture yourself.

Number 5: Jo March is the artist-girl’s everyman and patron saint, not just yours. Keep yourself (your feet, your heart, your head) in your own story. 

This is the hardest one for me. 

I am not the only writer who has once imagined herself as Jo, and that bothers me sometimes.

I want to be the only woman with the bold words, the deep melancholy, the fear of loneliness, and the creativity that pours out of my ears. I want to wake curled in a window seat with my fingers bone tired around a quill, and whisper, “Merry Christmas world,” as my eyelids flutter open. I want to bound down the stairs with an untidy abandon, so energized I am by the very concept of living. I want to write it all down, I want to feel, speak, experience everything! 

But countless others in the world also want this, and actively live into this vision for themselves. I find myself becoming deeply jealous, so worried about other people doing the-writer-thing better than me, with more published books and email followers and perceived clout. I worry their ideas are better, that every genius idea is being used up before I can get to it.

But the stunning catch is this: what good news it is that Louisa May Alcott birthed a character that still inspires so many women to write. The world is is only better for it.

What I say to you (and me) is this: let Jo inspire you, and be grateful for the art she stirs up in the world without claiming the whole of it for yourself. Art is abundant: it does not all belong to you. When others have “it”, this does not indicate less for you.

Do not compare yourself, any part of yourself, to anyone else. Do not wish away the people who are doing good work just because you are jealous. This leads to certain death. This world needs throngs of people who are alive, people who pay attention and tell about it.

Here is the truth: You are not Jo March. You are not that one person you are thinking about right now. You are your own self, with your own ideas to offer.

And this is very good news. 

BONUS Number 6: CELEBRATE! 

When you do well, CELEBRATE. You’re working hard out here–throw yourself a party, even if it’s just getting yourself a latte or telling somebody what you did well. Try it next time you accomplish something difficult.

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I am so grateful for all of you. I could not have come this far without so many of you committing to read what I have to say on a regular basis, and sharing it with your friends. What a tremendous gift that you are here.

Here’s to 100 more submissions, 100 more chances to be brave. 

Tell me: what does 100 more look like for you?

Leave a comment or send me a DM! I’d love to hear from you. 

I want to say before we go, as a final piece of encouragement: hold onto the dream. Wait for the moment in which you will clutch your book in your arms. It has happened before! It can happen again. It can happen to you.

I love you, I’m with you, I’m for you, etc. etc. etc. 

- Alyssa