From Jealous Ingénue to Debut Fucking Author: A Middle-Life Reckoning

The truth about wanting to be special, the shame of becoming what you once judged, and why 49 might be the perfect age to finally write your first novel.

Dear nerds¹,

I was going to be an ingénue.

You know the type—the fresh-faced 21-year-old with the black and white author photo, talking to Sheila Rogers on The Next Chapter about being named, "One of Canada's Debut Talents To Watch."

I had it all mapped out because, frankly, I'd always been the best at English. The award winner. The overachiever who, at age 11, read 40 books in a single readathon and won my first Walkman with $2.50 per book from my dad (his mistake).

But here's what actually happened: I went to University of Victoria for journalism, got politely asked to move to creative writing after two years, and discovered I wasn't the most special person in the room anymore.

The Rude Awakening of Not Being Special

In my creative writing classes—studying under Lorna Crozier, Patrick Lane and Jack Hodgins—there was this guy who wrote a short story set on the East Coast of Canada. It took place in the 1400s and featured a giant squid. Without a doubt, it was the best piece of writing I'd ever encountered in my fiction classes.

I was so fucking jealous.

When I lamented to Jack about how my piece wasn't as good, he told me something that made me rage: jealousy, although natural, was going to sabotage my writing.

I was angry that he called me out. Angry at myself for being jealous. Because I wanted to be the one everyone else was jealous of—the ingénue, not the jealouser.

The Long Detour (Or: How I Stopped Writing)

Instead of dealing with that jealousy and the hard work of actually writing, I fell into a job I loved at abooks.com. I was employee number eleven, helping out-of-print booksellers move from print catalogs to the web. It was creative enough—marketing concepts, book fair themes, meeting librarians.

I told everyone I was going to be a writer. Then I just... wasn't.

The Jealousy Never Stopped

Years passed. The new kind of tech writing I did was LinkedIn posts, help docs, employee onboarding materials, and pitch decks. It satiated enough of my creative brainstorming urges that there wasn't an urgency to write fiction anymore.

But I was still jealous of Lena Dunham when she wrote and starred in "Girls." "God damn it, why isn't that me?"

I kept telling myself I needed to "live more life" first. So I did live. Met a guy, followed him to New Zealand, lived there for 10 years and started two tech companies.

Then Emily St. John Mandel's first novel came out and I read it. "God damn it, why isn't that fucking me?"

We moved to LA, eloped, had a daughter, lived a whole other life in Southern California. When I read Silvia Moreno-Garcia for the first time, same thought: "Why isn't that me?"

I returned to Vancouver Island. And yet, I still hadn't "lived enough."

Turns out they were writing. And having the desire to do something is not the same as fucking doing it.

The Shame of Becoming What You Judge

Here's the part that makes me feel sick: In those UVic fiction classes, there were two women with gray hair in their early 40s. I remember thinking, "Thank God I am not a middle-aged woman changing careers and deciding to write my first novel."

They were taking my twenty-something place. Taking up space that was meant for me to shine.

Except they weren't. They were actually lovely, and we became friends. Maybe I was always secretly a middle-aged woman—that fucking tracks. I did always wear Birkenstocks.

I feel a lot of guilt around that judgment. At 20, I don't think we really see people with experience because we're so wrapped up in our own shit.

The Breaking Point at 46

Here I was at 46, feeling completely shitty about my life. Just done with not doing what I really wanted.

For years, I'd convinced myself that marketing and building a business with my husband was enough. But it hadn't been enough for years.

I'd been on antidepressants regularly, relapsed into post-partum depression when my daughter was born, was yelling at my husband, not sleeping—all the signs that I was unhappy.

I figured this was just middle age. This was what we settled for. The deal now.

But it's not.

The Plot Twist: Embracing the Gray-Haired Debut

Now I'm going to be the debut author with gray hair at 49.

Fuck you, almost-21-year-old Annabel, and your ridiculous ideas of what you deserved.

Instead, I'm going to high-five middle-life Annabel—the one who's actually fucking done what she said she wanted to do.

I could not be more proud of myself. Go me!

Because here's what I've learned: wanting to be recognized for talent isn't the same as developing it. Being jealous of others' success isn't the same as creating your own. And sometimes the perfect age to become a debut novelist isn't 21—it's 49.

Sometimes you need those gray hairs, that lived experience, and the hard-won wisdom that comes from detours and mistakes and finally stopping the bullshit excuses.

Sometimes you need to become exactly the person you once judged.

With love and judgy elatedness,
Annabel
xxoo

Ps. Have you ever found yourself becoming something you once judged? I'd love to hear about your own plot twists in the comments.

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1. I’m using nerds in the best possible way. Nerdship: How we love a thing with such veracity that we annoy others, and then one magical day we find other people who feel the same way about the thing we love. That is nerdship.