I Nearly Quit Writing After Selling My Debut

In January 2024 (when I sold my debut novel “The Iron Garden Sutra” to Erewhon Books), publishing a book felt like the least important thing. Authorship isn’t activism. It’s not praxis. And watching from a mid-sized city somewhere in Ontario, I could already tell that, even across the border, we would need a whole lot of activism (and maybe more) if we were going to make it through the next four years. For a period of time, I wondered, if Canada was annexed, would my book still get published? Would it sit on a Barnes & Noble bookshelf somewhere in New York as I barricaded myself in my basement? It sounds like an overexaggeration now, but understand, I’m Ukrainian. Four years ago, many Ukrainians felt exactly the same skepticism, even as Russian troops gathered at the border. Books, authorship, didn’t spare them from war. I planned. I imagined where I’d go if Canada were at war. I suppose I would stay. I have a mortgage.

It was in these (in hindsight, absolutely bonkers) thoughts that I spent the first half of the year, completing my developmental edits and then line edits, still trying to understand how I could work on a book, this meaningless object, during such a rupture. Staying off the internet helped a little. Seeing how people were coming together to push back and fight, on both sides of the border, also helped.

Stressed and overprepared, I went to Philly in the summer to the American Library Association Conference. The energy was amazing. People were pissed, yes, but people were also promoting books by BIPOC authors, queer authors, and disabled authors. There were so many diverse children’s books! Being surrounded by people who believed in books, even during the horrors, was life-changing and uplifting. I was under no illusion that everything would be fine and dandy, but I was starting to hope again. Maybe we could get through this. Maybe writing a book, publishing a book, wouldn’t be meaningless.

Then, things started getting worse. Aggression rose. ICE killed people in broad daylight, kindnapped children. Ukraine lost most of its electrical power, and people started freezing in their homes. Even the tariffs started kicking my ass. I wrote another book, and then another. The publication date for The Iron Garden Sutra was creeping closer and closer. I grew more and more hesitant to post about the approaching publication, to promote my work, to engage with it in any way. When people asked me if I was excited for the launch, I smiled and tried to change the subject.

What was the point of writing, I kept asking myself, if it wasn’t objectively changing anything in the world?

Except, a week ago, I read Endling by Maria Reva. It didn’t end the war in Ukraine. It didn’t bring anyone back from the dead. It did, however, alter something inside me because for a moment, I was reminded of how resourceful Ukrainians are. I was reminded of how funny we are, of how full of contradictions, how rich and unbreakable our tradition is. For an evening, I was reading the words of someone who was also struggling with the reality of the war, sitting in the comfort of their Vancouver life. Nothing changed, but something still did. Endling, a book about Ukraine, about the war, about snails, is on the longlist for the Booker Prize. The book didn’t end the war, but I’d be lying if I said it means nothing for the Ukrainian struggle.

When I was younger, books saved my life—literally. I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for a handful of stories that I found by chance alone, that either distracted me or rewired my brain in some way so that I managed to go on to the next day and then the next, and then the next. Those books were just that, books, but they kept me around so that I could go on to volunteer and work, and tangibly improve the lives of others. The books did nothing but keep me alive, a minuscule accomplishment in the grander scheme of things.

Now that the release is impending and I have more and more books in the publication pipeline, I find myself, again, questioning the impact that writing has. Writing a book isn’t activism, but maybe that’s fine. Neither is my partner sitting with me at three in the morning when I haven’t slept in weeks, letting me cry into his shoulder as my brain loses touch with reality. That’s not activism, but it sure is fucking nice. And trust me, it’s lifesaving.

One of the few beliefs that I hold to be an axiom is that we have a responsibility to one another. None of this “people don’t owe you sh*t”. No, that’s how you swan dive into societal collapse. If we live in a society, we benefit from it, and hence, we hold a responsibility to ourselves, our neighbours, friends, our families, and even strangers we meet on the street. I also believe that, if we have a skill that, when performed, can make someone’s day better, it is our responsibility to keep performing said skill.

Every single time I want to stop writing, I remind myself that each book has the potential to resonate with someone enough that they will stick around, or less drastically, that they might feel seen, and that in itself can be enough. Allegedly, some people enjoy my writing, and so it is my responsibility to keep doing it for as long as I can.

I’m not going to change the world with my books. I’ve made peace with that. That isn’t the goal.

Perhaps though, if I try hard enough, I can make it a little more bearable for someone.

(and I can donate a portion of my royalties to people and organizations that do most the work)

ANYWAY 

This is the part of the newsletter where I usually ask you to pre-order my book.

SURPRISE! I will not.

If you have pre-ordered The Iron Garden Sutra, a massive thank you! Seriously. Pre-orders are the thing granting a stay of execution for my wee writing career.

HOWEVER.

Book prices are up, and that sucks. So, I have an idea. If you’re not pre-ordering the book but still want to help an author out, could you, instead, request your local library stock it?

The reason for why I am so into reading is because when I was young, and my family was poor, books were kind of the only form of entertainment my parents could afford for me (read: free). I spent all my free time at the library. I loved it there, and I want as many people as possible to have the opportunity to read The Iron Garden Sutra for free.

I’m including some information below, so that if you request the book to be purchased, you can copy and paste a lot of this.

Pitch:

Klara and the Sun meets S. A. Barnes’s Dead Silence with a touch of Becky Chambers’ A Psalm for the Wild-Built in Nebula Award-winning author A.D. Sui’s darkly philosophical murder mystery, as a death monk and a team of researchers trapped onboard a spaceship of the dead encounter something beyond human understanding.

Vessel Iris has devoted himself to the Starlit Order, performing funeral rites for the dead across the galaxy and guiding souls back into the Infinite Light. Despite the comfort he wants to believe he brings to the dead, his relationships with his fellow Vessels are distant at best, leaving him reliant on his AI construct for companionship.

The spaceship Counsel of Nicaea has been lost for more than a thousand years. A relic of Earth’s dying past, humanity took the ship to the stars on a multi-generation journey to find another habitable planet yet never reached its destination. Its sudden appearance has attracted a team of academics eager to investigate its archeological history. And Iris has been assigned to bring peace to the crew’s long departed souls.
Carpeted in moss and intertwined with vines, Nicaea is more forest than ship.

But the ship's plant life isn’t the only sentience to have survived in the past millennia. Something onboard is stalking the explorers one by one. And Iris with his AI construct may be their only hope for survival...

Thanks for making it to the end! Until next time!

Cheers!