For Those Who Failed Miserably + It Broke Their Own Heart.

My fiction book - three years in the making - didn't sell. Here's what happened, and how I helped myself feel better about it.

——

It all started in Japan, back in November of 2023.

My family was on our annual trip. Because of my father’s illness and our touch-and-go finances growing up, we never took international trips - or many vacations for that matter - once I hit my tweens. Now, it feels like a blessing to close our eyes and pick a place on the map that we’ve never seen, but want to. These trips are sacred in my family. We all live in different cities, so they’re a way for us to spend focused time together. But more importantly, they’re a twisted form of redemption. We lost everything when I turned 18: our house, our cars, our standing in our community, our family friends, our dignity. Those hazy, endless years of my dad’s illness, then divorce, then our financial downfall, felt like getting kicked in the stomach every time I woke up. My mom was bedridden with depression for over two years. My brother had to change schools. I took on extra jobs to keep paying my way through college, but had 80 cents in my account on any given day. Being able to finally afford and take these trips together feels like a massive middle finger to the people and circumstances that tore my family apart.

Every trip feels like revenge.

So on November 30th, when I woke up at 3AM Japan Standard Time to a barrage of texts from my agents telling me the two editors interested in my fiction book pulled their bids - and that we had none - it felt like getting kicked in the stomach all over again. 

I had woken up to pee and saw a series of texts light up on my phone screen. Walking down the winding stairs of our tiny ryokan, I read the texts in one glance and nearly tripped head-first. My heart started racing - like I was in danger, or being hunted - and I started gagging in the bathroom sink. 

“The market’s just really, really brutal right now. We’re honestly shocked ourselves. This wasn’t the outcome we expected.”

“They LOVE your voice and were blown away by the story - but fiction thrillers about startups or startup culture haven’t done well for them in the past. It’s not personal!!!”

“The market’s just really, really brutal right now. We’re honestly shocked ourselves. This wasn’t the outcome we expected.”

“The book is fantastic. It’s not you. We’re seeing it left and right. Will follow-up with more details soon, but hang in there.”

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw my phone into the bathroom mirror. I wished I had tripped down the stairs and cracked my head open so I could be drugged-up and isolated in some random Japanese hospital room, away from everyone who knew about the book. Away from the embarrassment of failing. 

I slowly made my way back up the stairs and onto my thin, twin-size mattress. I stared at my mom. She was sound asleep. I didn’t want to wake her up for support. I didn’t want to tell anyone, or text my agents back. I just wanted to disappear. I wanted to die. I face-planted into my pillow, and the shame became all-consuming: inadequacy, humiliation, grief, and anger swept over me. A loop of negative self-talk started playing in my head on full-blast:

You’re incompetent. You’re so naive. You’re not talented. You’re not enough. You’re a fucking idiot for telling everyone you were writing this book. Why did you make it so public? Why can’t you keep anything to yourself? Why did you think this would sell? Why are you so delusional? Everyone’s going to laugh at you once they hear this. You have lost all credibility. You’re a joke. You’re a loser. You’re a failure. 

I laid there, taking to myself like that, for 6 hours. I cried. I bit the skin of my hands raw to keep quiet when I needed to wail. I did box-breathing every time my heart rate would spike. I felt like I was on a rollercoaster of pain, sorrow and outrage. I was in an endless tunnel of suffering - but I rode it. Alone.

“What’s wrong, honey?” my mom asked as she woke up, her eyes half-open, but still able to sense my discomfort. 

“My book didn’t sell,” I told her flatly. “They texted me to tell me the book didn’t sell.”

My mom instinctively got out of bed and came over to climb into mine, and spooned me from behind. 

“What did they say?” she asked, settling under the covers.

I sighed. “They said it’s the market. That this category hasn’t done well for publishers in the past. That they were shocked, too, and that I shouldn’t be discouraged, or whatever.”

“I told you baby, it’s a tough industry,” she said while tickling my back. “Selling anything creative is never easy. You may have to write another book, and then another, before someone bites.” 

I started to heave and cry. Another book?, I thought. Another one? Are you fucking kidding me?

This book was my escape, my therapy, my crutch, for three full years. It was the creative outlet I needed when my business started to feel repetitive and oppressive. It was driven by pure inspiration and excitement - the first three chapters coming to me suddenly on a red eye flight in 2021, two-red-wines and a Xanax deep. These characters felt like family. This plot felt like a massive achievement - a twisting, suspenseful, satisfying ride that took endless edits and tweaks to perfect.

The Raise follows Darcy, Alexis and Victoria, three masterminds behinds the e-commerce darling, Savvy. The book opens with Alexis - she’s ubering to Darcy’s funeral. Darcy has died in a freak accident at Burning Man, and Alexis and Victoria, her executive team, are left pick up the pieces and maintain Savvy’s meteoric growth at all costs ahead of their next fundraise. But as they look under the hood, Savvy’s success is not all that it seems, and Darcy’s character gets called into question. What secrets was she hiding? And can Alexis and Victoria really trust each other? Alexis, a chronic people pleaser and follower who was deeply codependent with Darcy, and Victoria, a ruthless, driven schemer with a flexible moral compass, challenge readers to analyze the health of their own ambitions - and friendships. The story is told from a first-person, present tense POV - via Alexis - and the chapters are organized like a ticking time bomb. Savvy is 3 months out from going bankrupt. 1 month out. 1 week out. Etc. That charged, relentless tone was directly inspired by Uncut Gems - like a car crash you can’t look away from. There are B plots and C plots - Alexis and her exhausting relationship with her needy, rugrat boyfriend, Darcy’s sexy love affair with a mystery man - but the shocker at the end, the moment where it all comes together, is what made me most proud of the work. Landing that surprise element, tricking the reader, is the hardest thing to do. And I know I fucking did it right. I know I wrote something magical.

I had told myself I could write fiction back in 2019 - I would write fiction - and then I actually did it. This book was a promise I made to myself - a vow I kept on Sundays and weeknights against all odds, and despite the demands of my business. I was proud of it. It was part of me. 

Writing the book, and submitting the book, it felt like the first time I turned off the voice in my head that said “you don’t deserve this,” or “this may not work out.” I let myself be delusional - FULLY - for the first time.

I was really confident going into the submission process. So were my agents. Everyone of my friends who had read the book, and friends of mine in the industry who had read the book, and my mom, and her friends, and my agents’ interns - readers across different ages and demographics loved it, got it, and felt just as excited and as confident as I was.

But it feels vulnerable to be that confident now. Writing the book, and submitting the book, it felt like the first time I turned off the voice in my head that said “you don’t deserve this,” or “this may not work out.” I let myself be delusional - FULLY - for the first time. I talked it about it so openly with everyone I knew and everyone I met. This failure feels like a punishment for that confidence, but I’m working on it.

—

I’ve been embarrassed and hesitant to share that my book did not sell, even though my mission as a person, business owner and friend, is to challenge this notion of “perfection” and help people embrace what’s messy and non-linear in their lives. People come to me when they fail or they need to pivot because they know I’ll embrace them and game-plan without judgment. My friends reach out when they’ve fucked up or lost out on a great opportunity because they know I won’t think less of them, and that I’ll offer more optimism and encouragement than anyone they know. Clients literally pay me to get them out of professional ruts or rework their businesses when things are in the shitter. When other people fail, I know exactly what to do, how to think, how to motivate, how to inspire, and how to overcome.

But when I fail, I crumble. I fall apart. And it takes a long while for me to reassess, get strategic, and rebuild my sense of self. 

So when I got back to New York from Japan a few days after getting the news, I decided to treat myself like I was my own client. What would I tell Client Ali to do? How would I talk to her? What would I say? What would I not say? And how would I help her rebuild her confidence brick by brick, with the same love, affirmation and positivity I give everyone else?

How would I teach her that failure is not punishment for confidence, but rather, the test of whether your confidence is rooted only in external validation, or rather, the internal knowledge of and belief in your talents?

1. I told Client Ali to lean on others to help release the shame. 

Shame ferments in solitude. It’s like the vinegar to your shame’s cucumber (brutally executed analogy but let’s just move on). The more you stew in your shame alone, the more tangy and powerful it gets. 

As soon as I sat down for breakfast with my mom and brother and told them what happened and how it made me feel, I felt better. Not completely better, but it felt like by talking things out, I was able to smooth down the edges of my shame and make it less all-consuming. I then told a few best friends and my book coach, Leigh Stein. 

I have often struggled with asking for help, sharing my lows with those closest to me and seeking support and encouragement from my loved ones because my shame gets in the way. I remember when my company was on the brink of near-death a few years ago, and instead of telling anyone, I kept it inside and ultimately started losing my hair, developed finger herpes, and stopped eating. 

I wasn’t going to do that again.

I think vulnerability is extremely powerful and not only healing for the person seeking help, but healing for those who witness that vulnerability. So not only will talking it out help you take your power back, but it will also set an example for others that when they're disappointed or falling short on their goals and dreams, it’s okay to open up and share that story with their inner circle. 

2. I told Client Ali to feel her feelings and not feel guilty about them.

I felt insanely disappointed by this outcome, but instead of letting myself feel FULLY disappointed and grief-stricken, I tried to fake resilience. I immediately started brainstorming new book ideas, connected with my TV and motion picture agent to discuss turning The Raise into a movie instead, and refused to experience the depths of my sadness.

Because I was suppressing my intense disappointment, I found it impossible to read for about 6 months. I couldn’t read fiction thrillers, even if I was really excited about them. And I could not bear to see new book announcements from my favorite authors on Instagram, despite being naturally “rising tides raise all ships”-ish. Instead of radically accepting that I was heartbroken, I was still champing at the bit to turn things around or start writing a brilliant new book to prove my worth, to prove that I could get to the finish line. Then, I’d feel bad about my resentment. Or guilty that my next brilliant idea hadn’t struck. I would stay in this cycle, week after week: feeling tough then raw then eager then exhausted then bitter - but never truly sad. 

In time, I learned that feeling and feeding your sadness for a little bit can prevent that sadness from perverting into something worse for the long-term. I don’t like feeling bitter or resentful or self-pitying. My body knows those feelings and likes to repel them, or turn them into something more productive. But I found that the longer I delayed feeling my sadness, the harder it got to do that, and the more curmudgeonly I’d feel.

I think it’s important to experience your creative disappointment. Let it wash over you so you can get clean and move on. The longer you deny or postpone the disappointment, the more power it has over your mood - and the less equipped you’ll be to do and sustain good work.

3. I told Client Ali to measure, analyze and information-gather on wtf happened.

I’d like to say I “thrive” off of feedback but honestly, I think it’s more of a control thing. I want to know why something didn’t happen the way I planned it all out in my head. 

So I asked my agents to gather feedback from the editors who read my book, and help a post-mortem on the submission process to talk through the outcome. 

I found it eye-opening, particularly the editor feedback piece. It was validating: because here I had dozens of readers! How exciting! It was the first time a large collection of people read my book in its final form. That felt vulnerable and thrilling. And also because in reading it, I realized how subjective their feedback really was: for one editor, the book moved too slow. For another, the second half felt rushed. For one, the characters were captivating, but the plot was too layered. For another, they struggled to connect with the characters, but loved the plot - especially the twist at the end. 

It all boiled down to this: no one LOVED my book enough to fight for it, especially against market headwinds. 

I wasn’t a bad writer. I wan’t incompetent. I wasn’t laughable. 

This just wasn’t “The One.” 

I expected all the feedback to give me some brilliant epiphany about my plot-writing or my character development or some pacing thing I had technically fumbled. But that’s not what happened. Instead, taking this step gave me a brilliant epiphany about the way the publishing industry works, how editors emotionally connect with books (or not), and the mindset I should walk away with if I want to maintain the motivation to write again.

4. On that note: I told Client Ali to start writing again.

My relationship with writing is common, I think, but it feels something like this:

I feel most myself when I am writing. Most in flow. Most satisfied. Most whole. 

Sitting down to write is like knowing this good, yummy feeling is coming, but it also feels scary? Like you have to steel yourself. So when you’re on the heels of a recent rejection, a rejection of your writing, it simply takes so much more energy. But I had to find a way to make my discipline more powerful than my ego.

But for months, I struggled to write with confidence, and worse, I simply didn’t make the time to write at all. My ambition, experiences, sense of self worth and identity were so wrapped up in my fiction book. I didn’t have a neutral, distanced relationship with “the work.” It consumed me. It wasn’t a commodity to me - it was an artifact, almost. How could I sit down and do that again? 

I started to understand that maybe I couldn’t do “that" again - or at least, not yet - and then, I had to believe that that was okay. 

I took the pressure off writing my next fiction book by writing a newsletter instead. I started my Substack as a way to write when it felt right, and as a way to share with my audience immediately. Instead of judging the type of writing I was or wasn’t doing, I decided just writing was enough. 

And I’m not where I want to be with this project. With Substack. I’m not making the time. I’m not taking the time. I should be writing more, networking more, and doing a better job of keeping the new promises I’ve make to myself. But I’m still working on making my discipline more powerful than my ego, and sharing this piece with you feels like a very big step.

5. I told Client Ali to expand her sense of self and her identity. 

In selling and then leaving the company I ran for eight years, I felt this compulsion to branch off and live a new and different life very urgently. The entrepreneur lifestyle had worn me down, and I began daydreaming about becoming a fiction writer who lived in a little upstate house and gardened and never had to open Slack or a chaotically color-coded Excel spreadsheet ever again. I remember the moment I deleted Slack off my phone back in 2022. It felt orgasmic.

Even though we’re in an era of building Portfolio Careers and “multi—hyphenate” careers - and I’ve always owned that about my own path - I felt weirdly compelled to be this singular, other, new thing after Bulletin. I had to interrogate why I felt so quick to shed my identity as a company-builder and entrepreneur, especially when I was actively working with clients who were making more money and closing deals because of me. It’s not like I was a founder who fumbled. I’m pretty good at what I do…

In expanding my sense of self and re-finding “play” in my work and career in the six months after Japan, I decided it would be fun to bring my copywriting skills back to consumer, specifically to physical products, where I had never played before. If three years working on my book taught me discipline, independence, how to slow down, how to write plot, and how to do character development - what could Scent Lab teach me? I wasn’t ready to write another book. I didn’t feel the pull, or big themes tugging at me and begging me to explore. But I wanted to keep learning. I always do.

So far, Scent Lab has taught me that “Toasty Vanilla smells like burning down your favorite bakery and escaping with a tub of frosting,” that working creatively and collaboratively can feel better than writing alone for days, and that I am allowed to be good at and enjoy two completely different modes of being. 

I do not need to be one thing, or be known for one thing. I can love writing, I can be a writer, and also be a CMO. I can build a business and make time for this Substack. I can write another fiction book someday, hopefully some day soon, but that doesn’t need to be Who I Am. I can spend Monday through Friday deep in Slack and Gmail and Canva and Google Sheets and cherish my Saturdays and Sundays for books and journaling and writing and rest. I am so many things all at once, and that’s what makes me special. That’s what makes me - me. I am legitimate in every form. I am still a writer even though this happened.

Because I fucking say so.

—

Some of you may read all of the above and whine about my champagne problems. Some of you may empathize with the feeling of taking a big creative swing and hitting yourself in the face with the bat. Some of you may feel inspired by what I’ve shared and feel a little more willing, now, to be open when you fail or experience professional disappointment.

No matter the impact, I am proud of myself for how I coped with the outcome. I am most proud of how I was able to gently walk back from the brink of destructive, negative self-talk and initiate a self-soothing, supportive conversation with myself and with my ego. I am excited for whatever big themes and questions and “what ifs” plague me next, because I know they will lead to my next fiction project. Whenever it happens, whenever it strikes - I’ll be ready.

As for The Raise, I accepted a long time ago that that book did something to me, and for me, that I’ve deemed “enough.” I challenged myself to do a thing - and I did the thing - I wrote 80,000 words that I loved, and still love. And every moment of that process made me smarter, stronger, more perceptive, more confident, and more myself. 

When you fail, don’t ask “why did this happen to me?” take a few days, and then ask, “what did this do for me?”

Image by @laoralaora

Talk soon 🧘‍♀️,

Ali