About a month ago, I had a professional mini-meltdown. There had been a milestone that I wanted to hit with my writing career; I was aware that the milestone in question was of the ‘shooting for the stars’ kind, but it was something that I wanted and that people around me — my agent, editors, readers, influencers — were convinced I could potentially get; so I allowed myself to believe that it was possible.

Throughout my debut year, this milestone loomed large in the background, growing in importance with each milestone I didn’t hit: whatever trad reviews, news coverage, media, sales numbers I didn’t get, I would transfer the weight of my disappointment onto this one milestone. There’s still that, I thought. If all else fails…, I thought. Of course, this was a flawed way of thinking — if anything, missing out on some of those earlier milestones made it less probable I would hit this last one, but I held out hope. And, more devastatingly, I hung my sense of worth as an author on it, too. If I hit that milestone, then I can finally allow myself to think of myself as a successful, acclaimed, real author.

When it didn’t happen, I was devastated. I split into two: one part of me, the rational one, was aware that the odds had never been in my favor; this outcome was logical and to be expected. The other, the emotional part, my soul-level self, felt physically injured, torn and trashed.

The weight of all those disappointments for all the things that hadn’t happened for my book, that I had then, instead of properly processing, tacked onto this one last thing, finally broke over me, and buried me alive underneath.

It was around that time, that I went to see a friend. She is my ex-neighbor and years ago, we had spent a lot of time in our building’s courtyard watching over our kids. We were both miserable back then — she was a stay-at-home mother with no sense of self-worth; I was an underpaid, overworked attorney plagued by anxiety attacks; and these were only our most prominent, visible troubles. I don’t think back then we were able to even contemplate the deeper, truer depths of what was truly plaguing us — the dirt of all the accrued emotional baggage, a lifetime of unprocessed pain and grief, the grime of all our unhelpful core beliefs we weren’t aware of.

And yet, we wanted better lives for ourselves. Something in us refused to believe that this was it, that the life we were living was as good as it would get, and that we just had to accept it — this was the platform we had connected on. One step at a time, we set a course toward personal growth, toward clearing out that clutter and baggage. On that path, my friend was always one step ahead of me, extending her hand to me to lift me up to where she was.

So when I went to see her, and I told her about that painful missed milestone— something I wouldn’t dare to admit to almost anyone else for fear of sounding too vain (the sheer audacity to think that I could get it!) — she gave me the number of her Theta healing therapist.

The healer and I met on Zoom, which only added to the skepticism. How can someone heal your energy, your soul over something as digital as the internet?

Then again, for years now I had been intentionally developing that other side of me, one that is highly intuitive, and believes that there’s more to our world than meets the eye, and our limited physical senses. My whole life is a colorful proof that these odd, “new age” techniques work: seven years ago, I quit law for a vague notion of doing something with books. I had no idea what that would be and I blundered through the first year of trying to find the right fit, but I ended up doing what I initially dreamed of — reading books for a living— when I became a book coach. Then, as if that wasn’t far-fetched enough, I went on to write a book in my second language, published it with a Big Five publisher, and then it became both a USA Today and international bestseller.

I had tried and tested this ‘new age’ stuff. I knew it worked.

I recounted all this to the Theta healer as I tried to explain why I was so disappointed with not hitting that one milestone. I had come so far! Why couldn’t I get that one final proof of being a real author? I told her I often felt this way: I got somewhere but then failed to go all the way. And so there had to be some misbelief inside me working against me.

She had closed her eyes, already in the theta state as she was listening to me, and she said she was impressed with my career path, it’s not often that you hear stories like these in Croatia. Then she said the words that stopped me in my tracks: Gdje se žuriš?

The direct translation, idiomatically speaking, would be, What’s the rush?but that translation doesn’t quite hit, because rush isn’t the subject in that sentence; the Croatian version puts the emphasis on YOU. Where are you rushing?

Where am I rushing? I said, mulling over the words. Faced with it like that, I had no idea. No answer to give her.

But I saw the logic in what she was saying. I had done so much, achieved so much in such a brief period of time — only seven years ago I was a Croatian attorney with no active literary leanings whatsoever, least of all in a non-native tongue. And yet, here I was, feeling like I was lagging behind and hitting a glass ceiling, because I measured my progress against the end result — where I wanted to be at the very peak of my author career, instead of honoring (enjoying!) the journey toward it.

The therapist and I continued with our session. There were other, more personal things that I brought to the table, issues that also made me feel like, no matter how hard I worked, I was still hitting that same old wall, sliding into the same old unhelpful patterns that held me back. We talked about my family, my sense of self-worth. The world guilt kept popping up, much to my surprise. I never felt like I was very hard on myself, quite the opposite; I pride myself in how much grace I give myself. But the word kept burbling up, how I blamed myself for literally every single thing that isn’t perfect in my life (another food for thought — does life have to be perfect?). We talked about my children and my role as a mother (more guilt!) and parents, and my grandparents who’d left an enormous mark on me. About their traumas, about what they left to our immaterial inheritance; about my stroke-stricken father and what his soul wants to communicate with mine. I had not expected to cry so much in front of a total stranger.

It didn’t feel much different than a “normal” therapy, except that whenever she encountered an unhelpful, harmful belief, she “took” it, and sent it to the light; then she “replaced” it with a better, more supportive belief.

My rational part struggled against this. What good will it do that she said she took a belief (how do you take someone’s belief anyway?) and sent it into the light? But I went with it anyway.

Toward the end of the session, with her eyes still closed, the therapist pinched her face as if in surprise. Ooof, she said, I see that fear of dying is your theme, she said, almost like an afterthought, something I surely knew, and then she moved on.

She moved on, but inside me, everything cascaded into a single point. Like in one of those Tetris games, when the right piece falls into the right place and it collapses the whole cuttered screenful of scattered shapes.

Were are you rushing? she had asked earlier.

Fear of death is your theme, she said now.

An image came to me. A photograph someone had taken of me when I was eight. My sister and I were living with our paternal grandmother back then in Split, while my parents had stayed behind in our hometown, which was being bombed daily. Our uncle and his family also lived in my grandma’s apartment, and the stress of having two more children to care for in such a crowded space, with no end in sight, meant they were often dysregulated and sometimes this dysregulation got unloaded on my sister and me through mocking or unkind words or gestures.

My parents visited once every two weeks, driving from our hometown down the road overseen by the enemy snipers.

Back then, I was holding it together in two-week increments. My parents would come, and then they would go, and then I would hold it, hold myself together, until they came next.

One time, they wanted to play a trick on us, just for fun. Our uncle had taken us out just before my parents had arrived. I remember looking for their car outside the building, then searching for them in the apartment. Freezing internally when I realized they hadn’t come, the two-week increment of holding it together exhausted, waiting to burst. In my mind’s eye, I saw them dead on that road, sniper bullets in their heads. I thought I would disintegrate burst burn disappear any moment.

My parents came out from my grandma’s room yelling, Surprise!

They were sorry, I know that now, when my sister and I started sobbing and they realized what they’d done, but they did what any parents of that era would — they laughed it off, said they were only joking, can’t we take a joke? It was for fun! They went to talk to the grown-ups, and I was left in the room, utterly bereft, demolished.

At some point, someone had come into the room, told me to smile, and took that photo. I can never look into my eyes when I look at that photo. It threatens too much to pull me into that same moment, that same overwhelming pain, sadness, aloneness.

This was the image that came to me during our session, when the therapist had mentioned fear of death and soul-level loneliness. Not because this was the only incident, or even the worst one. The war went on for three more years, most of which I lived separated from my parents. I don’t remember a single adult ever asking how I was doing. It seems unimaginable now, brutal. But such were those times, somehow the adults expected us kids to regulate ourselves, and we did.

That image, though, remained as a symbol. Of a total, complete aloneness. A symbol of how life can change overnight — one day you’re a kid learning letters in school, the next, you’re learning what to do when you’re being bombed. How safety and normalcy can be snatched away from you without your approval or control. And I am still trying, at forty-two, to somehow curb that, to control the uncontrolable, to grip life tightly by the reins, to steer it.

How screwed up is that? That I am eager to rush to the end of my life just so that I can finally feel some semblance of peace, of control? It’s not that I fear dying — no. It is worse than that. It’s that I see death as an out from the unbearable insecurity of life.

I do not trust life. I brace myself against it (holding it in like I did back in those two-week increments). I war with it.

I brace myself when things don’t go my way, which is the easy part. This is where I feel at home, because working through a problem gives me a (false) sense of agency.

I brace myself the most when things do go well. I can’t stand being inside a happy moment, inside a moment of success — because these are the moments when the other shoe tends to drop. Nothing more unsafe than safety, is there?

These are the deep-set beliefs my Theta healer revealed to me.

But of course, bracing doesn’t ever make you prepared. It doesn’t make you any more ready than if you hadn’t been bracing. At best, it only leaks your energy. At worst, it creates the very reality you are trying to brace yourself against.

Today marks four weeks since that session.

Some effects were immediate. A sense of relief. Of elation for cleansing myself from the grime of the thoughts I wasn’t even aware of having.

But the biggest benefits keep revealing themselves slowly, with time.

A true acceptance of where I am in my journey. A glimmer of satisfaction for where I am in my journey. A sense of appreciation for what is still to come, even if it takes a long time to get there. Trusting that I am, in fact, going to get there (and not die before I do!).

Awareness. Asking myself whether I truly want something, or only think I want it?1 Course-correcting accordingly.

Better understanding of what I want my life and my career to look like. Practicing to align myself with that understanding, not some outer vision or notion of what my life/career should be.

Connecting. Actively seeking ways to feel supported and less alone. To trust people and life more. It’s an ongoing process, but I’m committing to it long-term.

Making decisions from the standpoint of trusting life — or at least of not expecting the worst to happen. Over the years, I have bled so much of my energy expecting the worst to happen and preparing for it. So many of my resources spent toward so many things that never ended up happening. It pains me to think of all that loss.

Slowing down. Allowing myself to slow down. How many times have I worked weekends not because I really had to, but because that deep distrust of life was forcing me to work now, while I still could? Because if I don’t do it now, I might not get another chance? Because if I rest — which I obviously equated with wasting time — then I would have no one to blame (other than myself) when things get messy and I am not prepared.

Admitting to having had these thoughts fills me with shame. How is it possible that a rational, intelligent person can think any of this? The same person who preached the opposite to anyone who ever turned to her with such problems?

But here is the thing: I have never once thought any of this in my rational, conscious brain. If I worked the long weekends, it wasn’t because I thought — at least not in my rational brain— that rest is a waste of time, and that life is uncertain and I had to work to make sure I was ready for when the hell broke loose… No, I was simply busy! But nevertheless, these were the underlying misbeliefs that have been keeping me on the edge of a serious burnout for years now. It’s so subtle, that pull of the subconscious misbeliefs; so sneaky. So harmful. I’m glad we have the tools now, no matter how quirky they may seem, to demistify these misbelief that our lives quietly run on; that we have these magical woo-woo brooms to sweep from under the rugs of our conscious minds. So many of us sorely need it.

1

This can play out in sneaky ways. For example, the other day I wrote a pitch for an essay in a well-respected literary magazine. I bought two copies of that magazine— had to order it from the UK, because it isn’t sold anywhere else in EU, paid for customs and everything. Then my agent said my pitch needs more work. I read through the magazine, and thought to myself… this is kind of boring. And then came the meta-cognition, the gift of that therapy session, Why do you really want to do this? Because you really feel called to write a piece for this magazine, or because you think you need to publish something there to feel like a ‘real’ author? The answer was clear. I shelved the pitch.

Thank you for reading FOR LOVE OF WORDS!

My publication is free, but if you enjoy my content, please consider
supporting me by purchasing a copy of my novel, SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA, out from Simon & Schuster in the US, and Daunt Books in the UK!

Purchase a copy

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning. The beginning of March, the sky periwinkle blue, the sun finally out after months of hiding behind the veils of virga and rain. We get up early. “Do you want to go to town with us?” I ask my daughters. They’re fifteen and ten. They used to, every Saturday morning, but these days, more often than not, they have their own plans. When they say yes, my heart beams.

We park along the sea promenade in the city center. It is glorious in its white-stone beauty; monumental. It shines bright against the blazing rays of the sun. The grass is freshly cut. The air smells of wet hay and salt.

We sit on the terrace of a restaurant and order our coffees. There’s no wind. We take our jackets off. The sun warms our hands. The girls had brought cards. They play Spicy cats. They laugh. They bicker. I have to tell them to tone it down, there are other patrons around us enjoying the serenity of the moment, before the town is fully awake; but I don’t admonish them too much, it’s so lovely to see them playing, being silly, childish.

My husband and I talk about the news. A war started recently in the Middle East. We worry about people dying there. We worry about the war spreading. We worry about the prices going up and whether our finances can withstand it. Really, we conclude as we always do, someone should ban old men from running the world. We say, behind every belligerent country, there’s a crazy old geezer running the show.

Men.

I’ve been feeling hollowed out by the news lately. News of a billionaire forming an elaborate sex-trafficking network, sourcing underaged girls to the world’s most rich and influential men. In Afghanistan, the Taliban deciding that a woman’s life is worth less than that of a chicken. In France, a man standing trial for drugging his wife unconscious and inviting other men to rape her in their marital bed. A recent study showing that Gen-Z men are three times more likely to think that a wife should obey her husband, than boomer men. The information translates as I’m watching our daughters play: they have less chance of being treated as equals in their relationships than their grandmother did. The world is more hostile to them than it had been to their mother, to the mother of their mother, to the mother of the mother of their mother.

I’m deeply unmoored by these facts. By the subtle knowledge of just how many men would do the most atrocious things to women, to girls, if only they believed they could get away with it. I’m deeply disturbed by the lack of outrage from other, “ordinary” men, how silent so many of them have been. Where are they? Why aren’t they raising their voice? Why are they not banding under a hashtag, like women had to a few years back; hashtags like #notallmen, or #notme.

It gives me a slithering kind of feeling to think that my daughters, when they walk home from school, when they go to meet their friends, are protected from harm only by the flimsy veil of law; by the precarious balance of men around them fearing consequences a sliver more than wanting to bend them to their will.

The girls finish a round and ask me to go with them to the bookstore. This has always been our favorite pastime on Saturdays, poring over books and stationery, sometimes treating ourselves to new novels or trinkets. “Sure,” I say. They’ll grow up soon. Each time we get them to come with us, I wonder if this will be the last. Besides, it’s International Women’s Day tomorrow. My day, their day.

We walk over the old Roman Forum.

There, several dozen men are kneeling. They have rosaries in their hands, their heads are bowed down, eyes closed. Their fingers silently worry the beads. Some have pads under their knees; too hard is the stone against the soft flesh of their knees, I guess. They look like average men. Men you might meet on a street, on a bus. Men my girls walk by every day on their way to their friends, on their way to school. Some as young, or younger than they are.

“Look mama, they’re praying,” my younger says.

My older gives me a look. It’s like she senses something’s off; like the intention behind the prayer is a plume or smoke, curlicueing from those men, grimy and dark. I feel a gathering of muscles inside me, the same way I do when I pass a man in a dark alley at night.

“What are they praying for?” my older daughter asks.

“For chastity of women. For the men to be reinstated as the head of the household, as the main authority in the society,” I say. For your subjugation, I don’t say, but they feel it. I can sense them tensing, their eyes narrowing.

There are a dozen women standing aside. They have to stand separate from men, secondary as they’ve accepted themselves to be, as they pray for their own subjugation.

I have read about the kneelers in the news. It’s been going on for four years now. Funny how these things can pour over from the other side of the world, how fast they can cascade. In June that year, an important verdict was overturned in the US; three months later, Croatia had kneelers praying for women’s chastity on its main squares.

The news talk of protesters too, feminist and women’s rights organizations standing up to the kneelers’ silent bullying. But it never feels like their response is enough. Sometimes, these women carry roses, one for each woman who’s fallen victim to femicide in the previous year; their bouquet sadly growing in volume each year. Some, more radical ones, make a point of dressing obscenely, or protest by standing there in topless. I’ve always felt this radical act of denuding themselves somehow defeated the purpose.

My daughters take my hands. They hadn’t held my hand in a long time. I feel a surge of an impotent sort of anger bursting on the inside. For all the times I was treated as less-than, for all the times I could not charge for my work the way my male colleagues did, for the times I was asked if I plan to have children during job interviews, for the times I was laid off for giving birth to my children, for the times I braced myself walking down the street, for the times I felt threatened by a man, for the times I betrayed my own kind in order to ingratiate myself with men, for the times I laughed at a joke about women drivers, blondes, brunettes, models, women politicians; for the times I had to make myself small to make men around me feel bigger, to assuage the latent threat my knowledge or intelligence posed to them, for the times the times the times the times the times, and still that wasn’t enough, still they pray for more.

How is it possible that a practice as peaceful and beautiful as prayer can feel so oppressive? How is it possible for it to be so insulting, so infuriating?

What are you afraid of? I want to yell to those men kneeling as my girls and I walk by them. If God made you so much more superior, then why do you have to fight so hard to dehumanize us? I want to ask. And How come you feel more threatened by the length of a woman’s skirt than men with their thumbs on nuke buttons, sending out armies that raze entire cities, entire countries to the ground. But I know arguments fall flat with people as backward as these, it has never been about them not understanding, not knowing what a woman is worth. Them knowing the woman’s worth has always and forever been the point.

I feel a powerful need to retaliate, to defend myself against their prayer.

I send a look of indignation, but their eyes are closed, and besides, what is a look of a mere female worth to them anyway?

I have the urge to call the police. To tell them that there is a group of people here invoking gender inequality, requesting to subdue half of the population. It’s anti-constitutional, I want to say. I’m a lawyer, I should know. But then I remember that they do know, and have been allowing this to happen for years now. Laws mean squat if the powers that be aren’t willing to enforce them.

For a brief moment, the anger in me pulses so hot that I see white, and a high-pitched noise deaphens me. In that moment, I feel a strange, overpowering urge to rip off my jacket, to raise my t-shirt up and show them my tits.

Somehow, it feels like the only possible answer. My tits, which is what brought them to their knees in the first place.

Swallowing that impulse down is the hardest thing I’ve done in years. “Come on, girls,” I pull my daughters along, afraid that they’ll get tainted by the curse of these men’s thoughts, from which I cannot protect them.

Thank you for reading FOR LOVE OF WORDS!

My publication is free, but if you enjoy my content, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my novel, SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA, out from Simon & Schuster in the US, and Daunt Books in the UK!

Purchase a copy

This Saturday, I sent circa 20 pages to my critique partner. In my accompanying email, I wrote to her:

Sending over what I've been working on. I still have all the same fears and questions I had when I sent you the previous iteration a few weeks ago. Something about this just feels... lacking. Maybe it's too explicit, spoonfeeding the reader, maybe it's lacking in skill and craft. Maybe it's too many summaries and not enough scenes. Maybe the characters or their interactions lack depth. I feel like it needs to be much, much better.

I have been battling the same section of the book for months.

Or, to be completely forthcoming, I have been writing the same 50 pages for the last eight months.

This is the middle point of my new novel, and I need to pack a lot in a very confined page count: a drastic development in a certain relationship over a brief period of time, while developing different layers of that relationship simultaneously (emotional, intellectual, etc.); deepening each character, while also furthering the development of several themes the book engages with; creating an atmosphere that is becoming increasingly hazy, blurring the line between real and imaginary; all in a setting that doesn’t change, and with nothing happening externally.

I’ve written two books by now — my first book (which is now safely shelved), and my debut novel SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA — and in writing and rewriting them, it feels more like I’ve written a hundred. What I’m saying is, by now I know how to write a scene, a summary, a postcard (if you’re not familiar with the terminology, you can read more about those different types of scenes here). I also know how to pace, how to show, how to tell, how to create an atmosphere, how to develop a story on multiple interwoven levels. And yet, whenever I sat at my laptop trying to get the actual words down, and tackle this part of my new novel, it felt like I was completely, utterly, detrimentally out of my depth.

Because, sure — I know how to develop a relationship over a course of a novel or even a very short part of it. But it is new to me to have to do it — believably— in a span of 20 pages, and with zero plot. I know how to write with little plot (SLANTING is very character driven), but at least Ivona was going places, doing stuff; even if going places and doing stuff wasn’t what the scene was about, it offered a way to ground the reader, to give context or texture, and her way of noticing things allowed me to develop her more. But how do I do all that I need to do in this short twenty-page span, with no plot, nowhere for the characters to go, nothing for them to do, and without use of too much dialogue? How do I make it interesting, tense, unputdownable?

It didn’t help that I didn’t understand one of the characters too well. I knew (external) things about them, things that happened to them, but their personality kept eluding me. So I had to write my way into knowing them. Which meant writing a scene, thinking I was doing actual writing, but in retrospect, I would only get a single glimpse into that character’s personality. Often cutting all words but one, the one that had cracked them open for me a little, the one I could use not in writing but in ideation, going forward.

For months, I wrote and deleted, tried and failed. My frustration ballooned. I scoured other books, those penned by skillful authors I admire, but even when they did something similar (ie. covering a lot of ground in a short span of time/pages), the way in which they had done it worked for their book, but didn’t necessarily work for mine. I had to figure this one out on my own. I had to find a method that worked for this particular novel.

The result? I’ve been writing and rewriting the same 50 pages since last summer. That’s a progress of 50 pages in eight months! While I estimate I wrote several hundred pages over those eight months; when I actually break what is left down to monthly progress, it equals 6.25 pages a month.

Many times during this period, especially as the time and failure accrued, and as I was stuck doing the same 10 or 20 pages over and over again, I thought to myself, I can’t do this. Maybe I don’t have the chops to write this book.

Maybe I don’t have the knowledge/talent to write this book the way it’s demanding to be written.

Or maybe I should write something else.

Or maybe I’m not cut out for this at all.

But then I would feel a surge of something we in Croatia call inat, one of those words that don’t neatly translate into English; a specific, willful kind of stubbornness, a mix of obstinance and persistence, and even spite. The kind that says, you say I can’t? Just watch me!

INAT is that surge of adrenaline you get when you encounter a set of obstacles that feel insurmountable; but then instead of giving up, this surging feeling spurs you into action, unlikely as the result may be.

Very useful thing to have if you’re a writer.

Many times over the course of those eight months I tried connecting with my critique partner for regular feedback, like I did for SLANTING. With SLANTING, it helped me tremendously to have accountability while I was writing; to know someone is waiting for the pages. It helped to get her reaction to my pages, and see where they made an impact, versus where what I was trying to do wasn’t quite landing. It helped to talk things out on our regular calls, to voice what I wanted the book to be, to discuss characters as if they were real people; saying everything out loud made it more visible, substantial, and in return it would become perfectly clear what needed to go on the page.

We tried to get on a schedule with this book too, but my process with this book was different. How could I send her three pages that I knew weren’t even close to being there? When I knew, before even sending them, that the character wasn’t rendered in the way I wanted them to be?

These eight months were the most solitary. I missed the accountability of our biweekly sessions; yet I couldn’t produce anything worth sending/reading/discussing.

Three weeks ago, I finally had something solid enough to send her. Her reaction to it was positive, though not excessively so. In the lack of that excessive enthusiasm, I found my doom and despair. I didn’t know how to fix something that was just good.

I went back to the pages furiously. I questioned myself again. I knew I had to change something, but what? Should I start all over again, from scratch? Find a new point of entry into this particular section? Should I simply wave the white flag for this entire project? Maybe it’s time to move on?

But while I was exercising one afternoon, trying to master a move I hadn’t yet mastered, it hit me.

This writer’s block of mine, if I could call it that, was exactly like working out. I was, without being aware of it, learning a new skill as a writer. Building and flexing an entirely new muscle.

Suddenly, I remembered something I’d forgotten a long time ago. How common this feeling of ineptitude and inability was in the early days of my writing, when I’d been only starting out. How hard and laborious it was. How much work it took to learn things I now find so simple: weaving plot with interiority, for example; showing instead of telling, merging descriptions with dialogue… all those things I don’t even think about anymore, because they come so naturally, as if they’d always been there.

Looking back on the last eight months, it became clear that while I was still writing scenes and postcards and summaries, I was learning a new skill. Flexing a new muscle. With my previous books, I had learned to drive a car, but now I was learning to fly a plane. And all the while, I wasn’t giving myself any grace because, both plane and car are means of getting around?

With this realization clicking, I felt elated. It exhilirated me to see I had not plateaued. That there is still space for me to grow as a writer.

A big part of why writing appealed to me in the first place was because it’s dynamic, and there’s always more to learn. And somehow I forgot how that learning feels. How it shows up.

I worked on my pages again, honing, fine-tuning. I sent them to my critique partner again, writing that email I quoted at the beginning of this post. Usually, when I send a document out, I tend to reread it multiple times while waiting for feedback. Something about knowing that another person is reading it, perhaps at the very same time, helps me see the work with a little distance, a touch more clearly.

And for the first time in these eight months, reading what I had sent, I didn’t hate it. Maybe it’s not that off base? I thought. Maybe I’m getting somewhere?

A day later, my critique partner, who had read the previous iteration of these same pages only three weeks beforehand and with limited enthusiasm, wrote me an email:

Apart from adding one scene, I estimate I had changed less than 15% percent of the original text she had read three weeks before. It was all the same scenes, tweaked to amplify meaning, ending on slightly different notes. Massaged, yes, but not altered.

You can imagine my relief. While I’m not fully satisfied with these pages yet, I am satisfied that I have now officially drafted this part of the novel.

It took eight months. But it was worth it. And the muscle I’ve developed doing it is a muscle I’ll be able to flex for a long time to come.

If there is a moral to this story, then perhaps it is this:

• Not being able to produce quality work isn’t always a result of a writer’s block; or a critical lack of talent; or even a flawed story idea. Sometimes it’s just a matter of developing a new skill. We wouldn’t expect to learn know how to fly a plane just because we know how to drive a car, so why do we expect our writing to always come easy to us, even when we’re endeavoring a more complex execution?

• After a certain amount of time spent working on pages, we become blind to the work, and cannot tell for ourselves whether it’s hitting the mark. The mail I wrote to my critique partner — doubting the same pages she says are easily my best work to date, is proof enough of that blindness. At some point, it’s prudent to invite feedback in.

• A week ago, a coaching client asked me to tell her if she was making enough progress. She had reworked the first pages of her novel twice, and I still had comments on how to make them better; she thought this was proof of her lack of talent, and that if she had what it took, she should’ve progressed much more by now. How easily we forget that learning how to write (well) takes time! I’m sure the fact that it took me, a published author and a certified book coach, eight months to write 50 pages the way I wanted them written, made her feel better.

News and Tidbits:

• I’m thrilled to share that SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA will be published in DUTCH (Wereldbibliotheek); GERMAN (HanserBlau); HUNGARIAN (Libertine Editions); BRAZILIAN (Editora Astral Cultural), and BULGARIAN (Ciela) translation.

• Books I’ve recently bought and am excited to read/am already reading: Larissa Pham’s DISCIPLINE (novel); Elisa Shua Dusapin’s THE OLD FIRE (novel); Aysegul Savas’ LONG DISTANCE (short story collection).

• I recently finished two books set in Croatia, both written by first-generation Croatian-American writers: THE CHEESEMAKER’S DAUGHTER by (published in 2024 from Regalo Press), and THE HAUNTING OF LAVENDER HOUSE by Natalie Kikić (out from Park Row Books next September). There is something particularly satisfying about reading books set in my neck of woods, which is not something I get to do often. Both books are set on Croatian islands near me, a setting I am intimately familiar with, and it was refreshing to see how they (native English speakers) described some of the same landscapes I covered in SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA. Highly recommend to put them on your TBR.

• Just finished Belle Burden’s memoir, STRANGERS, an intriguing read about the dissolution of her marriage, after her husband of twenty years left her abruptly and without explanation. I’m always drawn to this kind of narrative as something similar happened to me (though at a much younger age, and after a very short relationship), but I’ve since remained fascinated with how and why some people simply flip a switch and leave without a single word.

• My critique partner, NITA COLLINS, is also a certified book coach, and she is currently offering a special Your First 50 Pages Developmental Edit, a developmental edit of the opening pages of a writer’s novel, designed to help the writer understand what their story is actually doing on the page, and whether it’s aligned with what the it’s meant to do. [As a book coach myself, I can attest to the first 50 pages being critical, and that a trained eye can gauge the flaws in story set up just from reading that far]. You can also find here on Substack.

Thank you for reading FOR LOVE OF WORDS!

My publication is free, but if you enjoy my content, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my novel, SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA, out from Simon & Schuster in the US, and Daunt Books in the UK!

Purchase a copy

Recently, I read a book — I can’t for the life of me remember which book it was and whether I’d read it for fun or for work – but I do remember that as I was reading, I couldn’t help notice the sheer number of scenes where alcohol was involved.

It was not a book about addiction or substance abuse. It was a domestic saga, or some such thing, and yet, after a while, alcohol consumption started jumping out at me. A character came home from work — they went to a fridge and cracked opened a beer. Someone came for a visit — they offered a drink. They met with friends — and clinked glasses together. Something uncomfortable happened — they numbed it with a shot. They were pleasantly buzzed — so they did something they wouldn’t have otherwise done.

You’d think that the use of alcohol in this book was excessive; that it was a poorly written book that didn’t go through sufficient editing. Sadly, that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t the book, it was me.

A few days before reading that book, a character in my own work-in-progress was offered a drink. Much to my surprise as I was writing this, they said no, they didn’t drink. I stood with my fingers poised over the keyboard, thinking What the hell do you mean, you don’t drink? You’re not an alcoholic! You don’t have a problem. It’s a dinner, it’s one drink, why don’t you just take it?

The thing is, something was about to happen, something scary and exciting, and so, without thinking, I’d offered them a drink. A drink would loosen them up, it would make the moment easier and less awkward. Exactly, they character countered. But isn’t that what life is all about? Experiencing the full breadth of our humanity? It is a scary and exciting moment, so why would I want to numb myself instead of experiencing it fully?

I felt like I’d been slapped silly.

I’d never been shamed by my own character before.

I let them refuse the drink, and wrote the rest of the scene out without it.

I started paying attention. To both other authors’ writing, and mine.

There is nothing unusual or unreal about the use of alcohol in books. This is why I can’t remember which book it was where alcohol jumped out at me. That’s probably because it was more than one book. Likely all the books I’d read since my character had slapped me silly had a similar (standard!) amount of alcohol in them. This was a slowly-growing realization. Because ‘reasonable’ alcohol consuption runs rampant in books, and so pick a book; any book, I dare you. Once you see it, you cannot unsee it.

Fiction is supposed to mimic life, and alcohol is (sadly) a staple of our society. We drink when we’re alone. We drink when we meet with friends. We drink when something bad happens and when we celebrate. We drink to unwind at the end of the day. All of these things are true, nothing fictional or excessive about them. We see them happening, we do them. And so it makes sense that we would see that reflected in books too, right? It makes sense that our characters would reflect the drinking habits we have ourselves, or witness in those around us.

And yet, as I was reading that — or those— books after I was shamed by my own character, and the alcohol kept jumping out at me, I started to see something else.

We don’t only use alcohol in order to mimic life. Oftentimes in scenes, authors use alcohol as a crutch. We need to intersperse the dialogue with a dialogue tag so a character

… walks to a fridge and cracks open a beer;

… swishes the drink around in his mouth, the bitter taste biting his tongue;

… swirls the elegant glass stem between her fingers, and takes a small sip;

… tips the glass to her lips;

… runs her finger along the rim of her glass.

Eleven years ago, when I was quitting smoking, I read Alan Carr’s book Easy Way To Quit Smoking, which rested on a powerful premise — smoking is less addictive than we really think. If you’re on a plane for twelve hours, you are fine with not smoking, but the moment you get off the plane, you need to light one.

If you were able to withstand the twelve-hour flight/the duration of the entire theater show/a three-day hospital stay without needing to light one, then it stands to reason you are not really that addicted.

The book also made another striking argument: smoking is romanticized. Those handsome, rugged Marlborough cowboys (that men want to be like, and women want to be with); those old movies with unforgettable character performances, when the Robert DeNiros and Clark Gabels and Cary Grants pensively blow smoke sideways; or tauntingly blow it into someone’s face; those overworked mothers, who sneak out in the back of the diner during their twelve-hour shift for a quick smoke… they all leave a subliminal message.

Smoking is sexy. Smoking is cool. Smoking calms you down. Smoking is a reward.

As I started writing my first book (the one I wrote before SLANTING, that is now safely shelved, and which I’d stared writing not long after I’d quit smoking), I found it excruciatingly hard to resist reaching for a crutch of a cigarette. For an image of soft smoke blown sideways. For the relief of that first inhale. For the neurotic outlet that was tapping the ash off. I remember how hard it was to resist, how much I felt my characters were blander for it. How hard it was to give them something else to do. But I was determined not to add to the romantization Alan Carr had mentioned in his book. I would not promote smoking through my art.

Yet, when it comes to alcohol, I remained blind.

In SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA, alcohol wasn’t front and center, but it was there. The characters hung together over beer or wine multiple times. In a crucial scene, having a few drinks too many gave a character courage (audacity?) to step outside his role and challenge the status quo. In another scene, it helped another character get over herself and give into pleasure. This is not unheard of, or unrealistic; oftentimes in real life alcohol is the catalyst, and we surely wouldn’t do some things sober. Sometimes we reach for alcohol precisely to embolden ourselves. My book only reflects that.

But being shamed by the character in my work-in-progress made me think. How much of writing alcohol is realistic use, and how much of it is about using alcohol as a crutch (writing it in just so that characters have something physical to do in a scene); or romanticizing it (using it to take the edge off, to give courage, to make someone look beautiful, or sexy, or cool)?

Fiction should mimic life, but the opposite is true too.

We mimic fiction (movies, ads, and books) in our real lives too.

By writing alcohol abundantly into our prose, we are basically saying, this is normal, this is how people usually behave.

So sometimes — tragically!— a writer will use drinking as a crutch, just to have something physical to intersperse the dialogue with (he swished the wine in his mouth; she tipped the bottle to her lips), unaware that through this innocent-seeming boilerplate dialogue tag, we are doing something far more dangerous: painting an image of a life where alcohol is omnipresent, and where its omnipresence is normal.

Writing without using alcohol as a crutch is a challenge. Alcohol is a go-to: imagine two people on a date. He comes over for dinner, there is some pasta on the table. She offers him water. Water doesn’t sting when he tips it back to his throat. It doesn’t make him edgier, or braver. It’s bland. She isn’t pleasantly buzzed and thus flirty. They’re both embarrassed and awkward. You have nothing to fill the blank page with.

How do we intersperse this dialogue? How do we make it unique and interesting and tense, without falling back on the use of alcohol?

My friends, this is where the art comes in. As writers, it is our job to not only reflect life as we see it, but to reimagine life as it could or should be. It’s our job to let our imagination run wild and show people interact in a way that doesn’t glorify alcohol, or other substance use. It is our job (and privilege and duty) to show how we humans can relate to one another without the use of those harmful crutches.

To paint and normalize an image of interactions stripped of those things.

He tipped the water back. He wished it was alcohol, but it didn’t sting, it didn’t make him feel brave. Instead, he stood before her, the pulse beating in his throat. She was beautiful, a bit intimidating. Then he saw a speck of spinach on her left incisor. He felt a rush of embarrassment on her behalf. He didn’t know if he should say something but he couldn’t imagine her seeing herself in the mirror later on, with spinach in her teeth, knowing he had seen it, thinking of how unsexy all her sensual gestures must have really seemed to him. He swished the water in his mouth again, hoping it might make her do the same, but she only smiled. The spinach beamed.

“Um, you have something on your—” he pointed to his own incisor.

Her face collapsed. “Oh my god,” she said, covering her mouth, taking a sip of water, swishing it around. She snuck a glance toward the bathroom, probably trying to decide whether it’d be less damaging for her to go check in the mirror, or to ask him if she’d got it, and risk that she hadn’t. She turned to look at him, slowly, and flashed her teeth. She seemed meeker to him now, more human.

The spinach was still there. “You’re perfect,” he said, and felt something peel off inside him.*

*This is not a scene from my new book, it’s something I cobbled together to prove my point. Writing around alcohol can challenge us. But it can also open a door to creativity.

I’m not saying we should not use alcohol in our writing altogether. When it needs to be there, it needs to be there. It’s a part of everyday life, and excluding it is not realistic. I’m just arguing against the trope-ization of alcohol. We should only use it where it is absolutely necessary, and avoid using it only as boilerplate language, only as a crutch.

I’m also calling for the awareness of the subliminal messages we’re leaving for the reader when we make our characters bolder, sexier, more complex and interesting through alcohol.

And maybe we can even take it a step further — and instead of normalizing and even glorifying substance use — we can try to paint a different image and help the readers imagine what life might look like without alcohol. To challenge ourselves to write beyond it; to show the readers how the raw, scary, and awkward, sober humanness can be every bit as sexy, and cool, and intoxicating.

Tidbits:

• Join bestselling and award-winning authors Kristin Vuković; Jo Piazza, Andrea Bartz, Sheila Yasmin Marikar and myself (Lidija Hilje) at the ADRIATIC WRITERS CONFERENCE on the gorgeous island of Lošinj, Croatia, from May 24-30, 2026. Learn more about the conference, fees, and application process here. **IMPORTANT: IF YOU ARE ACCEPTED AND GET YOUR DEPOSIT IN BY JANUARY 1, 2026, RECEIVE A $100 DISCOUNT AND A STACK OF AWC AUTHORS’ BOOKS! (USA RESIDENTS ONLY)

• In January, I’m doing a SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA read-along. Over the course of three Zoom calls, (Jan 13, 20, and 27) I’ll take you behind the scenes and talk through the creative decisions I made (both story and craft-wise) and inspiration behind certain aspects of the book. Registration is free, but a proof of purchase of the book is required to join (DM me if you need more details). Zoom registration here.

• I recently finished Elisa Shua Dusapin’s WINTER IN SOKCHO and loved it. This book is the definition of “no plot, just vibes”: atmospheric to the point of feeling almost otherworldly. ‘Oozing Winter and fish, Sokcho waited.’ How’s that for a quote?

• Almost finished HEART THE LOVER by Lily King — not my favorite of hers (I say this as an uber-fan of Writers’&Lovers and Euphoria), but I will never say no to a good love story.

Thank you for reading FOR LOVE OF WORDS!

My publication is free, but if you enjoy my content, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my novel, SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA, out from Simon & Schuster in the US, and Daunt Books in the UK!

Purchase a copy

Here are some of the books on my TBR and why I’m eager to read them.

HEART THE LOVER by Lily King, because I’m a sucker for literary love stories (especially love triangles), and because I’m a big fan of Lily King’s earlier work. Also, because — curiosity: I read WRITERS & LOVERS five years ago, and I used it as a comp when I queried SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA. Will Heart THE LOVER hit me the same way WRITERS & LOVERS did? Or have my preferences shifted and changed since?

WILD DARK SHORE by Charlotte McConaghy, because I read and really liked MIGRATIONS, and because this is the book that’s been on everyone’s reading list this year, and I’m not immune to its allure. I love climate fiction, and no one does it better than McConaghy (and Richard Powers).

LITTLE ONE by , because I was lucky enough to snag an advance reader copy (thank you, Olivia 🫶, it is absolutely gorgeous!) and because complicated father figures and the impact that traumatic childhoods have on our adult lives will always have me reaching for a book.

Onto the next stack. I’ve read all over media that white male writers are severely marginalized these days, so I’m including these as my diversity reads. Jokes aside, I’m eager to get to these three books from this years’ Booker Prize longlist/shortlist.

THE LAND IN WINTER by Andrew Miller, because my writing & reading bestie Mary Incontro, whose taste in books I trust with my life, told me to read it. Yep, that’s it. I was not particularly drawn to this book until she said I needed it in my life.

FLESH by David Szalay. Another one that was not an instant YES. But I’m drawn to it because I want to see what it is that the Booker Prize judges deemed worthy of awarding the prize for. And because I heard it’s written very sparsely, with almost no interiority, and I want to see how that worked out on the page. And because the Booker Prize IG account published short videos where renowned actors read a paragraph or two from shortlisted books, and I could not tear myself away from the Flesh’s clip.

SEASCRAPER by Benjamin Wood, for which the Booker judges said was “the story of a young man hemmed in by his circumstances, striving to achieve fulfilment far beyond the world he knows,” which is the ground I explored in SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA, albeit in a completely different way, but still, it piqued my interest.

Onto the underdog stack — books that are not as mainstream/ internet favorites as some of the previously mentioned titles, but that I am very eager to read.

JUST A LITTLE DINNER by Cecile Tlili, because I find it extremely hard to write a whole book set over the course of just one dinner shared among four characters. The skill and the character work that had to be done to pull it off have to be off the charts.

SUPPORTING ACT by Agnes Lidbeck, because I’m currently writing a book in which one of the main themes is the disbalance between the roles men and women are expected to play in marriage and parenthood, and as I understand from trusted readers ( 👋) this book is all about that disbalance, and it’s “thought provoking and compelling novel which … will resonate deeply with many people.”

Lastly, WINTER IN SOKCHO by Elisa Shua Dusapin, because it’s published by my UK publisher, DAUNT BOOKS, whose taste in books is infallible, and whatever they publish goes straight to my TBR. Also, because I believe Elisa Shua Dusapin is a rising star who’s been building her career steadily; over the course of several books, she has cultivated a fierce fanbase, which I find extremely inspiring. Her new novel is coming out from DAUNT BOOKS (their first hardcover edition!) in January 2026 in the UK, and from SUMMIT BOOKS in the US, and I have a feeling this might be Dusapin’s big-breakthrough novel so I’m jumping on that train early.

I’ve already started reading WINTER IN SOKCHO, and it’s a marvel. Atmospheric, distinct, compulsively readable. I can see what all the hype is about!

SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA is available wherever you get your books! You can find it at Barnes & Noble; Amazon; Books-A-Million and Bookshop, or at your local bookstore. You can also add it on Goodreads. Get the UK edition at Daunt Books, or at any of the wonderful independent bookshops across Commonwealth!

Full disclosure: I’m writing this post to avoid the horror that is facing a blank page. Yes — this post is a work of procrastination; or perhaps an attempt at curbing my creative paralysis by writing at least something.

This morning, I stared at a blank page for 3+ hours. I’m currently working on a scene well into the second act of my new novel, in which two characters are sitting on a beach, talking. If it sounds boring, that’s because it is. And it’s boring because I’m failing to make it interesting. And I’m failing to make it interesting because I’m presently out of touch with the deeper undercurrents of the project.

It’s a short scene, maybe half a page, and I could probably get away with keeping the scene the way I’d originally written it, in hope that the book is interesting enough on the whole and that the reader is solidly hooked into the larger narrative by now to glide past one short, flat scene. But I’m long past accepting boilerplate scenes in my work. I’m holding myself to a higher standard, and I honestly hope my readers do, too.

Creative Process

Last week, I was a guest at a book club, and one of the readers asked me what my creative process looked like, whether I have any rituals that get me into the mood for writing, or do I just sit down and write?

I’m sure it’s not the same for every writer, but for me creative process is not about rituals. I’m not one of those writers who sits down at their desk every morning with a mug of hot tea, lights a candle (though I do like my tea and candles!), cracks their fingers, sets the timer, and gets to work.

I’d like to be that writer. I hope one day to be that writer. But I’m not writing full time, which means I have to balance day job, and challenges of motherhood and life in general with my writing. And since usually all these duties are more urgent than working on a novel that’s currently not under a deadline, working on my novel often falls to the wayside.

For me, the creative process is about getting into, and then maintaining, a state of flow.

I more or less know what’s going to happen in my novel. But my novel doesn’t hinge on plot, it hinges on character development and style. So sitting down to write is not about figuring out what will happen on the page, it’s about figuring out how to write it. The things that I hope will hold my readers’ interest aren’t external. They won’t be wowed by the unexpected plot twist, or kept at the edge of their seats by the life-or-death suspense. What I’m shooting for here is to keep them hooked on language, turns of phrase, insights. I want the voice to be so immersive that they feel like a real person is whispering the story in their ear.

This means I can’t just write sentences that tell us what’s happening on the page (in this case, two characters sitting on the beach, taking) no matter how beautifully I write them. I need to get in touch with the deeper undercurrents of the novel; figure out what I’m really trying to say here without saying it explicitly; layer the scene so that it accomplishes at least three things at the same time, and tap into the protagonist’s authentic voice.

This morning, I wrote sentences, and then deleted sentences. They were good, decent sentences, there was nothing technically wrong with them, some were even pretty, but they didn’t make me perk up my ears and lean in. As a reader, I wasn’t feeling pulled into the story.

And the reason why this is, is because, as a writer, I’m not on the inside of the project at the moment.

The Creative Current

For me, the creative process is like an invisible current I need to break into. Once I tap into it, I’m in a state of flow. This state of flow feels magnificent: you understand the story, you’re gaining insight on your characters that wasn’t there before, you know exactly what you want to say and how you want to say. You feel inspired. You can’t type fast enough.

If you’ve ever watched Finding Nemo, you might remember the scene when Marlin and Dory are trying to break into the Eastern Australian Current. Getting in is the hardest part. They need to position themselves just right, get the right angle, and push through what looks like a wall. But once they’re in, they’re traveling at high speed with no effort at all. This is how breaking into a project looks like for me.

Here’s how Lily King describes creative process in her novel Writers&Lovers:

The hardest thing about writing is getting in every day, breaking through the membrane. The second-hardest thing is getting out.

Yes, this. Only for me, it doesn’t happen on a daily basis. It happens in cycles.

Once I break into the project, once I’m inside that current, I can stay inside for days and weeks at a time.

It’s pretty much like leading a double life.

Your brain enters this dual state of being: one side of you handles life as usual, your day job, your chores, your conversations with friends. But another part of your brain is now booted up; a subroutine, a processor runs the program of your novel in the back of your head all day long.

The novel lives inside you — or, perhaps, a part of you is living inside the novel. You see (and feel) it as clearly as you see your real life. You get the characters — all the way down to their most intimate micro-motivations, you possess a hawk-eye sight and overview of the narrative. While you’re in this state, whenever you sit down to write, the right words come to you relatively easily. You know what you need to do, you know how to do it. Sometimes, you can’t type fast enough — the words are almost waterboarding you.

In this state, you feel like you could write the whole book in a month.

The only problem is, life happens.

And when it does, you’re out.

Breaking In, Breaking Out

Here are the types of things that have been known to kick me out of the flow: anything (an illness or an overflowing schedule) that prevents me from working on a book for a week or so will take me out. Also, an emotional upheaval (something big, usually negative happening in my real life) will cause an instant drop out.

The thing is, that subroutine that runs your novel on repeat in your brain needs a lot of energy — it’s hard running things in the background all day long, for days at a time. Time away from the project, or sudden demand on your energy in other areas of your life, will inevitably make you drop the ball.

And once you’re out, you’re out: the project doesn’t feel familiar anymore. You read your pages and you’re not sure where you were going with them. You can’t really figure out what you’re supposed to do next. It all feels weird and foreign and like you can’t fully grasp it.

This is where I am with my project right now. Out, and trying to get on the inside. Trying to boot that part of my brain back up. My flat sentences, my deleted paragraphs are an ice pick I’m wielding to break through my WIP’s crusty surface.

Getting back in is a nightmare. It can take days, sometimes months.

It’s hard to predict when that click will happen. And the saddest part, when it does, you will never get back to where you were the last time you were in the flow. By the time you’ve come back in, so much water has passed it’s not really the same stream anymore. You may get a new, fresh insight, and a new way forward with the project, but you will never tap into the exact same pocket of water you were in the last time.

That’s why getting kicked out is so painful and annoying. Ultimately, what it means is this: I write my book in stints. And in each stint my understanding of the book is slightly different (though it does all add up and grow over time). And my job is to smooth out those transitions, so that no one except me will ever know about them.

Methods, Tools, Practices…

In terms of getting back on the inside of the project, what worked for me in the past is usually one of these three things:

Filling the creative well. Reading books, listening to music, watching movies, paying attention to the world around me. You never know when something you’re seeing or experiencing will trigger that spark of initial inspiration.

Once, during a long slump while writing SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA, I woke up to the sound of bulldozers — my neighbor was digging up his olive grove. I watched from my balkony as he plucked, one after the other, the old olive trees he had tended with fierce dedication until then. I couldn’t fathom why he was doing it or what he was feeling doing it, but I couldn’t hold back my tears. Those of you who’ve read SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA will know exactly the scene this experience yielded.

Daydreaming. I will often daydream my way back into the project. Whenever my life energy is not allocated elsewhere, I’ll think about my book before I fall asleep and just after I wake up, before I start my day. I’ll play out the scenes in my head, cinematically. During a slump, I will play them on repeat until I get the feel of it just right.

Consecution. This was something I was doing subconsciously and intuitively, but then during her visit at the book club I run for writers, Kimberly King Parsons told us it was an actual thing. In a nutshell, it’s getting that one sentence right, from which everything else flows. Writing that one sentence that feels loaded for you somehow, and you immediately feel the need to unpack all that it contains. This sentence feels like a gift — you don’t work on it, you intuit it, and when you do, there’s suddenly stuff to unwrap, pushing you forward. This is how SLANTING started.

These were the words that were gifted to me, and I immediately needed to know more. Who was the person saying this? Who was her ex-husband? Why is she stalking him? Is she stalking-stalking him, or is it more like, just being stuck on him? If the latter, why are they divorced, when she clearly still loves him? How long has it been? How did they fall in love? … the questions just kept coming. All I had to do is capture the answers, and type as fast as I could.

Ultimately letting that one loaded sentence that makes you lean in and perk up your ears is what it’s all about. It’s the key that unlocks the creative process (or at least it does for me).

Tidbits:

• Join bestselling and award-winning authors Kristin Vuković; Jo Piazza, Andrea Bartz, Sheila Yasmin Marikar and myself (Lidija Hilje) at the ADRIATIC WRITERS CONFERENCE on the gorgeous island of Lošinj, Croatia, on May 24-30, 2026. Learn more about the conference, fees, and application process here. **IMPORTANT: IF YOU ARE ACCEPTED AND GET YOUR DEPOSIT IN BY JANUARY 1, 2026, RECEIVE A $100 DISCOUNT AND A STACK OF AWC AUTHORS’ BOOKS! (USA RESIDENTS ONLY)

• In January, I’m doing a SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA read-along. Over the course of three Zoom calls, (Jan 13, 20, and 27) I’ll take you behind the scenes and talk through the creative decisions I made (both story and craft-wise) and inspiration behind certain aspects of the book. Registration is free, but a proof of purchase of the book is required to join (DM me if you need more details). Zoom registration here.

• I recently finished Andrew Porter’s THE IMAGINED LIFE (one of my first official blurb requests!) and it’s gone straight to my forever shelf. I loved this tender, meditative, atmospheric novel (the eighties and nineties vibes are impeccable)!

• I’m currently reading and loving ’ novel THE PLANS I HAVE FOR YOU, which will be out on March 17, 2026 from Simon&Schuster (I was lucky enough to snatch an ARC). Friends, get this on your TBRs ASAP! It’s giving off all the best Yellowface vibes, but IMHO it’s even more immersive and astute in its observations; and it’s gorgeously written. Pre-order here.

Thank you for reading For Love of Words!

My publication is free, but if you enjoy my content, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my novel, SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA, out from Simon & Schuster in the US, and Daunt Books in the UK!

Purchase a copy

Recently, I posted on Instagram about the difficulties of working on my sophomore book in the aftermath of my debut, and how the reception of Slanting Towards the Sea — though overwhelmingly positive — paralyzed me creatively.

The post must’ve struck a chord — so many writers reached out to me, either by commenting, or texting me privately, to share their own experiences with the negative review paralysis. This took me by surprise. I thought it was a “me” problem; I’m prone to being too much in my head. But apparently, many other writers are dealing with the same issue. Even acclaimed authors with celebrity book club picks under their belts wrote to tell me how terrifying it was to put pen to paper after reading negative reviews of their earlier work. So perhaps, this is a topic worth expanding on and discussing further.

* A note: for the majority of these writers’ books, mine included, negative reviews and ratings make up only a small percentage of the total reviews and ratings. At the time of writing this article, Slanting’s overall score on Goodreads is 4,16 out of nearly 4000 ratings; only 17% of those are three-starred reviews or lower.

Stages of Review Grief

Like Ivona, my protagonist in Slanting Towards the Sea, I have a tendency to overthink and overfeel. Whatever occupies the foreground of my life feels of vital importance, demanding immediate attention, and copious amounts of analyses and dissection, until I've worked through it enough to put it aside. It’s a kind of thought myopia—everything I focus on looms enormous, only later shrinking to its true size.

So it was with the reviews for Slanting: once they began pouring in, they consumed me completely. Only now, four months after publication, has that intensity begun to fade as I slowly processed what it means to be publicly critiqued.

Getting a negative review triggers something akin to five stages of grief.

At least for me, it usually goes like this:

• You read a review, example below:

and then you process it as follows:

• Denial: A wave of crippling shame overpowers you. Are my characters really selfish? Are their — and does this also mean my views — antiquated?

• Anger, Bargaining: What does she mean, selfish? Did she read the same book I wrote? Did she not see where I wrote about why they made the decisions that they made? Did she not see Ivona self-sacrificing for her ex-husband, his mother, her father, her brother? [then flipping the book open anxiously and rereading passages on pg. 24, 45, 245, 312… for the reassurance that it’s all still in there].

• Depression: Well, obviously I didn’t do a good job of writing this book. If I had, these things would’ve been obvious, the reader would’ve seen them. The customer is always right, as they say. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.

• Acceptance: Maybe this book just wasn’t a perfect fit for this particular reader. Breathe.

  ---

Adjusting to Reviews As a Part of Life

This is how I process individual reviews; but my relationship with reviews on the whole has shifted and changed over the 10-(ish) months that the book has been out, first as an ARC, then as a published novel. Here’s what that process looked like for me.

• Phase one (Jan-June: six months leading up pub date) - Learning curve:

The first reviews trickled in, mostly positive. The few negative ones I saw, I did my best to ignore. Reviews don’t matter that much, I parroted what others had told me; Your book will find its people.

Then a couple 3*** reviews popped up on Slanting’s Goodreads page, written by a couple of women with a pretty large following. They buddy-read the book, and felt conflicted about it: while they thought the book was beautifully written and unputdownable, they also found my protagonist frustrating, and her life choices questionable.

At first I didn’t stress too much about these reviews. Despite the three stars, they were more positive than negative, after all. But since these reviewers had a large following, a large number of comments appeared under their write-ups, reading — Ugh, so sorry this book was such a disappointment; and, I was looking forward to reading this, but I think I’ll pass on it now.

The number of Slanting’s adds on to-be-read shelves on Goodreads dropped.

On Instagram, where all my reviews had been positive until then, suddenly I saw a number of three-and-below starred posts, stating similar issues to those that the two reviewers had raised.

Several people who’d given me five stars on Goodreads before, quietly demoted the book to four stars.

Overnight, it seemed, my book went from being an Instagram favorite to becoming a problem-child; a book that was almost popular to dislike.

This taught me two things:

a) reviews matter — influential readers can give your book a boost, or stop your book’s momentum altogether.

b) there can be a herd mentality to the reviewer community. It takes courage to go against the grain and say you like the book no one else likes, and equally, to say you hate the book everyone else loves. There are some books/authors that are popular to love; some that are popular to hate. For some authors, it’s become impossible to even say you don’t like their work — their work is so well-received that saying that it didn’t resonate with you only makes you and your taste questionable.

When a debut book is freshly published, its destiny as of yet undecided, early reviews can really impact its overall success. If you manage to get the positive hype, the kind that discourages the naysayers, you’ve made it. But if a negative impact happens early on, your book might not get a chance to win over the readers who might’ve otherwise absolutely loved it.

Let’s just say that seeing the impact those two reviews had on my book didn’t help with my myopic thinking and only amplified my fear of the life-threatening importance of (early) reviews.

Thankfully, another couple of Goodreads influencers buddy-read the book a few weeks later, and gave it unequivocal five stars which seemed to have stopped the spiral, and evened the ground out a little for Slanting (after this happened, I even saw one of those first two ladies bump their rating to four stars); but even so, I never felt like the book fully regained its initial momentum.

• Phase two (July, August: publication time) - Paralysis:

Around the publication date and right after, the number of reviews-per-day increased — the book got from a few hundred to a few thousand ratings in a matter of two months. I still read each one— inevitably focusing on the negative ones, and even though they were varied, I started to see some patterns emerge.

A new fear unlocked: what did it mean that more than one person raised the same issue with the book? Could it be possible that two different readers missed the same thing? Or did I not do a good enough job as an author to show that thing? Did I not explain why things were as they were? Did I not represent the realities and challenges of living in Croatia sufficiently, for example, and why Ivona couldn’t simply snap out of it?

The effect was cripling. I started doubting my abilities as a writer.

Worse yet, some of these reviews felt deeply personal, questioning the characters’ (which at certain points meant, by extention, my own) worldviews, morals, convictions, intimate thoughts. As a result, they didn’t only have me questioning my capabilities as a writer, they had me questioning myself as a person too.

A lot of wounds surfaced during this time: all the times I’d been rejected, misunderstood, or unloved in my life now validated by these negative reviews.

During this phase, not only could I not write new material of my own, I couldn’t even read other authors’ books. I developed a sort of a second-hand fear — I was terrified of thinking of other author’s the way some of these reviewers thought of mine; terrified that I would make up my mind in a negative way about another author’s book, and that I will be doing so not because the book really didn’t do its job, but because I was, for whatever reason, unable to see or interpret what the author was trying to achieve.

• Phase three (September - now) - Desensitization:

By the end of September, so many reviews had rolled in that I’d started to desentitize to them. I felt less of a pull to (doom)scroll through newest reviews every day; and when a negative review did pop up, it was easier to remain calm and not mentally engage.

Life moved on, and some other things happened, and the myopic, distorted lens that had been magnifying the importance of reviews in my head, adjusted to a more-less appropriate size.

Hindsight, as they say, is always 20/20.

Interpretation of a book = what’s on the page + the reader’s particular lens

I can see now that a lot of my fears, when it came to negative reviews, were rooted in the imposter syndrome. A part of me that claimed that I wasn’t a good enough writer, that I was incapable to do the story justice. That the reason those readers didn’t connect with the material, was because I’d done a poor job of writing it. After all, I’m trained as a (Croatian) lawyer, not an (English/American) writer. Seven years ago, I had absolutely no knowledge of the writing craft whatsoever. It’s not hard to believe that my writing abilities are not yet there.

But what I also learned over this period is this:

The MANUSCRIPT accounts for only the half of the reading experience. The other half is made up by what the reader brings to the table.

There’s more to reading than just a mechanical understanding of the words on the page. Yes, writers needs to do a damn good job of penning their vision— the better job they do, the easier and more straightforward they allow for the interpretation to be. But even so, that’s just half the work.

The other half is what the reader brings to the table: their own experiences, reading preferences, knowledge, sentiments, intelligence, capabilities of discernment, worldview.

In accepting this fact, it helped that there were so many positive reviews that did see what I’d intended them to see. Just yesterday, for example, my UK publisher sent me a link to a beautifully written review by a UK blogger/bookseller. It wasn’t just what this reviewer wrote, but also the quotes she chose to support her points, that made it absolutely clear that she understood the book the way I’d hoped and intended.

So, alas, it IS all there. I did put everything I needed to put on the page. I did allow for the “right” interpretation to be possible.

If there were such a thing as the RIGHT interpretation. Sure, there’s the interpretation that I as the author hoped and aimed for, but it doesn’t make it right. Right for whom, one might ask.

This is the thing about art. It rests somewhere halfway between the artist and the audience.

Every interpretation is a symbiosis of the manuscript and the reader, and so, no other reader’s interpretation can ever be the same as mine. And all interpretations are valuable and true in their own way.

This realization, which I’m ashamed to admit I’ve only been able to embrace recently, now feels oddly liberating.

Because if this is true, and I, as the author, can’t control the outcome, then the best I can do is try to write the best book that I can. Do my own vision as much justice as I possibly can.

This realization brought me back to the starting point. Yes, I do have an agent, an editor, and an audience of readers now. But I’m still the only person I have to answer to for my artistic and craft choices when I’m writing my next book.

How These Three Phases Affected My Writing

During phase 1 and 2, I couldn’t write at all.

My new manuscript languished in the depths of my computer, starved for attention. But I couldn’t give it any. Fear for me is the antidote to creativity, and I was terrified of making “a mistake” that would prompt negative reviews similar to those I was seeing for Slanting.

Thankfully, when the phase three struck and I managed to steel myself to the criticism, the negative reviews started blurring into the background.

Positive reviews impact was subtler, but over time it proved steadier, and more important. Positive reviews showed patterns too — what my ideal readers come to my work for, what comparative advantages I had to offer as an author. It’s those advantages that I’m leaning into now that I’ve come back to my new manuscript.

For a long time, I couldn’t sit down with my new manuscript, because when I did, all I could hear were other people’s voices. Voices telling me that if I avoided saying this, or tapping into that, or if I adjusted my protagonist, or explained what she did a little better, I might avoid negative comments once the book comes out. But this isn’t possible. If the reading experience is a symbiosis between the words on the page and the reader, then there is no such thing as a perfect book. There is only a perfect book-reader fit. So now when I come to the page, the only thing I think about is this new story, and how to render it in the best possible way, and how to use the words that feel right. As I’m writing, there are only two voices I hear: my protagonist’s and my own. Exactly as it should be.

Important note: This post isn’t an attempt to take issue with the review community. I am thankful for every review, and I cherish every reader, including those who felt compelled to write a negative review, or have had to DNF the book. I’m so grateful that they gave it a shot, and spent time with my words, despite the fact that the book didn’t prove to be a good fit for them.

Reviews matter. Reviewers matter — they are the backbone of the bookish community. Negative reviews have their place just as the positive ones. They stear the right audience toward the right books.

If I’ve learned anything as a debut author, it’s that there’s only one thing that sells books, and it’s not media coverage or NYT reviews; it’s word-of-mouth. It’s readers telling other readers which books they loved, and a part of this is, inevitably, talking about the books they didn’t love. One can’t exist without the other.

The aim of this post is to help other authors learn to process the grief that comes from dealing with criticism. Our work, especially our debut novel, tends to be very personal to us. Putting it out there means, to an extent, exposing yourself — your thoughts, your worldviews, your personality traits — to public scrutiny for the first time. Getting criticized can be painful, it can even stir up old wounds, but it’s par for the course of being an author.

We know this going in, but still, growing a tougher skin can be a bit of a learning curve. I hope distillation of my own journey helps other authors get there more quickly.

When fellow author told me she was organizing a writers conference in Croatia in May of 2025, and invited me to serve as a Master Class instructor, I accepted before she was able to finish her sentence. I’d met Kristin the previous fall in my hometown, where she’d come to promote her wonderful book, The Cheesemaker’s Daughter (like Slanting Towards the Sea, Kristin’s book is set in Croatia; Kristin is American-born, but Croatian in origin); so I already knew her to be very knowledgeable about all things publishing, and very well-connected in literary circles.

Apart from being an award-winning fiction writer, Kristin is an experienced and award-winning travel journalist (with words published in The New York Times, BBC Travel, BBC Good Food Magazine, AFAR, Travel + Leisure, among other outlets). She has circumnavigated the world innumerous times, knows her way around five-starred hotels and Michelin-starred restaurants; and has had her share of attendance of writing conferences — including the coveted Sirenland Writers Conference, hosted by one of my favorite authors, Dani Shapiro. So I knew that in organizing the inaugural Adriatic Writers Conference (the first conference of this sort in Croatia) Kristin knew what she was doing.

But even so, I wasn’t prepared for the level of thought Kristin put into every single decision made while organizing the AWC.

She chose the location carefully: a five star hotel Bellevue, situated on one of the most beautiful islands in Croatia — Lošinj (also referred to as the island of vitality); she had visited the hotel several times before and knew its incedible micro-location and amenities (and award-winning spa!).

She chose the format of the conference with even more care. Having been at a fair share of conferences herself, she knew where most of them fell short, and she accommodated accordingly. As a result, she made sure AWC had just enough of everything: meaningful workshopping, craft masterclasses, and lively free-time where people could discuss and connect more deeply.

She selected the attendees carefully as well. The application process for attendees was rigorous; she sought a level of seriousness in their approach to both the craft and business of writing. Most had been writing for years — some were already agented, others award-winning journalists turned fiction writers. Every attendee brought a professional mindset to their work, ensuring the instructors could offer the greatest value through their coaching; and that connections nurtured among the attendees during the conference would prove meaningful onward in their career.

I dare say, she chose the instructors with utmost care too.

• Workshop instructor (a nationally and internationally bestselling author of Everyone is Lying to You, The Sicilian Inheritance, We Are Not Like Them, You Were Always Mine, Charlotte Walsh Likes to Win, The Knockoff and How to Be Married. Her work has been published in ten languages in twelve countries and four of her books have been optioned for film and television. Jo’s podcasts have garnered more than twenty-five million downloads and regularly top podcast charts);

• Sheila Yasmin Marikar, the author of the novels Friends in Napa and The Goddess Effect, and frequent contributor to the New Yorker, the New York Times, Vogue, and many other publications.

• And lastly, myself, Lidija Hilje: an Author Accelerator certified book coach and USA Today bestselling author of Slanting Towards the Sea, with personal essays and articles published in The New York Times, Lit Hub, Electric Lit, Jane Friedman, and more.

The Micro-Location: Čikat, Island of Lošinj, Croatia

I was born in one of the most beautiful coastal towns in Croatia; my family originates from one of the most gorgeous Croatian islands; I travelled my native Dalmatia region (arguably, the most beautiful region in Croatia) upwards and downwards hundreds of times. But even so, nothing could have prepared me for the luminous beauty of the Čikat Cove, where the Adriatic Writers Conference took place.

All I can say is that when I arrived there, I couldn’t breathe. It’s the kind of beauty that literally stuns you into silence. The emerald color of the sea, the lush dark-green of the trees rising along the shores, the colorful, elegant Austro-Hungarian-Empire-style villas lining the cove… It’s impossible to get used to this sort of beauty; you keep walking around, and feel impossibly alive — and grateful to be so.

The Pomalo Snail - And Level of Detail

While I was still on the ferry from my hometown to Lošinj, I received a call. It was the hotel reception desk kindly asking for the time of my arrival so that they can send a car. I hadn’t expected this, nor had Kristin mentioned anything: I’d thought I would need to get my own cab once I got off the ferry. After all, I was a fellow instructor, not a guest.

But when I disembarked, there was a driver holding a board with “Mrs. Hilje” written on it. It made me feel like a million dollars. I could scarcely believe the attention to detail Kristin had put into my arrival.

I will never forget arriving at the hotel for the first time, the awe of the building itself and its surroundings making my skin shiver with goosebumps. A gorgeous, enormous foyer bathed in light; white marbled floors speckled with bits of gold and rusty-brown. A glass-rimmed corridor leading through a green-grassed atrium, and a view shooting toward the glorious Čikat cove. Inconcievable, luxurious beauty.

That evening, over cheese, charcuterie, and wine, Kristin presented me with the Pomalo snail — a small figurine with a crystal ball in place of a shell, shaded blue like the Adriatic Sea. Even its name, Pomalo, was carefully chosen. In Croatia, pomalo (literally: “slowly,” or “take it slow”) is more than a word — it’s a motto, a state of mind; a reminder to set worries aside, savor the moment, immerse yourself in the fjaka way of being. Whenever you speak to locals in Croatia, you’ll hear the word again and again — pomalo, pomalo — where’s the rush, why the worry? Only after receiving the snail did I realize how often the word was spoken around us, and how often I spoke it myself.

And so it became the motto of the conference. Pomalo. Good things take time. Slow and steady does it, even in writing; especially in writing. A welcome reminder to approach building an author career with care and due attention, instead of rushing blindly towards some imaginary goal.

“We’ll Talk About It At The Publishing Panel”

Whether this was Kristin’s intention from the start or something that emerged from her attentiveness to the participants’ needs, I can’t say for sure. What I do know is that this conference offered far more than craft masterclasses and material workshopping — though those were, of course, immensely valuable.

It offered something sorely missing in the publishing industry: real talk.

Talk about finances. About realistic expectations (spoiler: the chances of being chosen by Reese’s Book Club are slim — and yet, it’s often the first question authors ask on a call with their agent or editor). Marketing. Publicity. Strategies. Queries. Auctions, pre-empts, offers big and small and how to manage them (accept them? refuse them?). Publishers, big and small and what’s better for what kind of writer. Publisher support and what to do when it’s not proving ample or sufficient. Platform-building (how to-s, do-s, and don’ts). Finding your readers (where? how? who?). Building relationships within the industry (horizontally, vertically). Being a good literary citizen. Making a living off your writing.

This, it turned out, were things that interested participants even more than how to “show don’t tell,” or revise their manuscript.

And so, a rule was established: what’s said at the conference stays at the conference. As reminded us, publishing is a closed-door industry — and it’s not authors who benefit from that. We need to start talking honestly about the things we’re usually encouraged to hide.

We met the attendees where they were; the last day we held a Publishing Panel, where for several hours we talked honestly about the industry and our experiences within; what worked for us, what mistakes we made, and gave honest answers to every question we were asked.

In the era of Instagram perfection, where most authors show only the good stuff— the things that did work, the coverage they did get, the money they did make, the accolades they did receive, this kind of real talk is invaluable.

Even for me it was. At the time of the conference, I was two months out from publishing Slanting Towards the Sea. Even though I served as a fellow instructor during the conference, sharing my own experiences of choosing between multiple agent offers, having a pre-empt-turn to auction, all my experience with publicity and marketing… hearing someone like Jo Piazza, who’s been in the industry far longer than I am, give honest advice on what works and what doesn’t, was absolutely life-changing.

This year, we’re raising the bar even higher. Now that we know how much REAL TALK matters to attendees, we’re coming prepared. More important still, we are joined this year by , the author of multiple bestselling thrillers, including WE WERE NEVER HERE, which was a Reese’s Book Club pick and an instant New York Times bestseller. Additionally, Andrea recently won a law suit against Anthropic (an AI platform that trained on copyrighted material; first such win over AI in the world; which you can read about in the New York Times). Imagine the industry insights you could get from someone like her!

Point is, there is so much more than being a talented writer with an interesting idea and knowledge of craft, that goes into building a successful career. This is a conference that gives you just that. The tools and the know-how and the connections that will help you along the way.

Additional Perks

As intense as work was — mornings filled with workshops, afternoons reserved for Master Classes — we still had enough time on our hands for sea bathing (my personal preference, the sea there is otherworldly!), using the award-winning spa (for free!), writing (Jo finished her upcoming book The Parisian Heist while on Lošinj!), strolling around Lošinj, bike rides, even scuba diving.

There were also two organized outings — sunset cruise aboard the a fully restored 19th-century lugger, Nerezinac, drinking champagne and wine and eating cheese and watching dolphins in the dying sun; and a visit to the Scent Garden (the cured meat sausage we had there made from wild boar, was out of this world).

On the last evening of their stay, the attendees had a dinner at the Michelin-starred restaurant, complete with attendee readings. Unfortunately, I had to leave earlier that day, but I heard it was an incredible and moving experience.

I could go on, and on, but try as I might, writer that I am, I cannot put the experience of attending Adriatic Writers Conference in words. It was the single greatest professional experience of my life. Just take my word for it, and apply!

Adriatic Writers Conference 2026

The inaugural Adriatic Writers Conference was a rousing success, and you can read some testimonials here.

Applications for the Second Annual Adriatic Writers Conference on Croatia’s gorgeous island of Lošinj are now open. The conference will take place from May 24-30, 2026.

In addition to the intimate nature of the conference with intensive small-group fiction workshops (between 5-7 participants per workshop) focusing on developed projects and advanced craft, what sets AWC apart is a focus on the practical aspect of building a writing career. Master Classes and panels on author marketing and publicity, the business of publishing, how to frame a premise and pitch, and revision--led by award-winning and bestselling authors — gives aspiring and published writers insight into how to navigate the ever-shifting world of publishing, building on each author’s individual strengths.

More resources:

• Listen to Jo Piazza and Kristin Vuković discuss querying and submission process on Jo’s podcast Under the Influence; they also discuss at length what you can expect from AWC 2026.

• You can read some of the last year’s attendees (and instructors) testimonials here.

• Please reach out if you want to speak with last year’s attendees to ask what their experience was like, and I’ll connect you with them.

• Learn more about the Workshop and Master Class instructors here — Kristin Vuković; Jo Piazza, Andrea Bartz, Lidija Hilje, Sheila Yasmin Marikar.

• Learn more about the conference, fees, and application process here.

Last Thursday, a bookstore in London hosted a book club session for Slanting Towards the Sea, and I was invited to share some behind-the-scene thoughts on the book via Zoom. The wonderful host asked a few questions about the inspiration behind the book, my writing process, and the experience of writing it in my second language; and then she invited questions from the audience.

The first question was about use of Croatian words and phrases in my writing, and then a lovely woman came forward, and a bit shyly, she asked: “Did you ever consider that Ivona might let go of Vlaho?”

For a moment, I was taken aback, scrambling for an answer.

You see, I have this tendency to want to agree and get along with people, so my impulse is always to validate the person I’m speaking to. And if she was asking about it, that surely meant she thought that Ivona’s holding on to Vlaho for over a decade, despite him being married to someone else, might be excessive.

I understood the logic behind her question. Longing for a partner you’ve left years ago with no chance of ever getting them back doesn’t make much sense.

A slew of (not always kind) reviews I’ve read over time, resurfaced, as if to add validation to her inquiry.

• Nine years is a long time to hold on to an ex, one said;

• It annoys me when people can’t get over love though, come on… no one clings on their ex for 10 years (I hope);

• i can sympathize for a little, but after awhile you have to stop wallowing and actually do something to change your circumstances or how you feel about them;

• The book felt very long as most of it is spent talking about how much she pines for her ex to the point where I was rolling my eyes saying okay I get it you still love him but it’s also been a decade so maybe you should remove yourself from the situation or get over it?

Reading these reviews, I felt deeply ashamed.

For it could only mean one of two things. There’s either something wrong with me for being the kind of person who can absolutely imagine clinging to an ex for ten years; or I failed, as an author, to capture the essence of such a person, and make it believeable enough for the reader.

Neither is flattering.

A Case For Long-lasting Emotions

When I was a junior in high school, I was in a brief, all-consuming, whirlwind relationship with a twenty-one year-old boy (man, guy?). The whole thing unfolded over three weeks. We knew each other from before, but I didn’t like him—I thought him smug and conceited—and it was evident that the dislike was mutual. Whenever we hung out with the same people, we kept to the opposite sides of the crowd.

But then one night, something clicked. It was a song, or something he said, or something I did. And suddenly, there was banter, and we were all smiles and long gazes, and attempts to be close to one another. We started talking, and then we started texting, and then we were together.

It was so intense it felt like I had suddenly learned to breathe underwater, the laws of physics changing overnight. He seemed to see inside my deepest thoughts; my insecurities were laid bare to him and he called them out with casual ease. For the first time in my life, I felt seen. Worse still, I felt understood.

And then it ended just like it had begun. We held hands walking into town one evening with some friends; we sat down for a drink; he excused himself to go buy cigarettes, he kissed me goodbye… and he never returned.

He didn’t disappear altogether. We still moved in the same circles. I still saw him on an almost daily basis. But he refused to talk to me, or answer my texts, or at least answer the basic question of why? And yet, he still wore the hoodie I’d given him, which only confounded me — what did it mean? Had I inadvertently done something to hurt him?

Obsessively, I pored over every memory, every sent text, every moment shared. There was nothing I could find that had been amiss. So obviously, I started questioning my sanity. There had to be something, because who does what he did for no reason at all?

Our mutual friends didn’t know or didn’t want to tell me why he’d left me the way he did. I became the butt of every joke, the laughing stock of the town, the girl who got dumped without a word, over a pack of cigarettes.

For more than a year, I reeled.

It was only two weeks, friends kept telling me, and I kept telling myself. What did two weeks mean? How much can you get to know, much less love someone in two weeks? He had demonstrated, very vividly, that I had completely misjudged him and didn’t know him at all.

But for the rest of my junior, and a larger part of my senior year, I kept spiralling.

The point is, it was only two weeks, but it took over a year to lick my wounds and let go of a notion of a guy who clearly didn’t deserve my affection or attention.

[Years later, I will have found out two things that explained his behavior, and mine. I will have learned that I have a neurodivergent brain that has a strong affinity for cognitive closure. My brain cannot stand open-ended scenarios and ambiguity. It craves definitive answers and certainty; and his behavior offered none. I will have learned that what had felt like clinging to him was not because I loved him, but because my brain was unable to leave the puzzle of what had happened unsolved.

Years later, I’ll also have read a memoir by a woman who had gone through something similar, though on a much larger scale. She had been love-bombed and then cruelly abandoned by her husband days after giving birth to their child; she too reeled until she dug deep into the psychology of her ex and their whole dynamic. She discovered that her ex had sociopathic tendencies, which made him incapable of empathy (hence the cruel behavior); and which was also the reason why he had been drawn to her, an empath, in the first place (opposites attract, and all that). He lured her in by mirroring her thoughts and insecurities, which made her think that he genuinely understood and emphatized with her when the exact opposite was true. Reading this and recognizing the similarities in the dynamic, I finally felt like I solved the puzzle of why my ex had left me so cruelly, and after I did, I haven’t allotted two thoughts to him again*].

[[Another point I could make here: for over a year I clung to a guy I’d dated for barely two weeks, and for over a decade after it ended, even I couldn’t explain why I had clung to him for so long.]]

*I should also say that I don’t think my ex was a sociopath or had sociopathic tendecies. But he did lack the emotional maturity and empathy to handle our breakup in an appropriate and fair manner. And I did feel that a part of him enjoyed seeing me dismayed and bewildered, which, I’m sure, was a good ego boost for him.

A Case For True Love

At the end of my senior year, I reluctantly fell in love again. I was still pretty raw, and distrustful, and wary. I felt broken on the inside. I didn’t trust my own judgment, not after it had failed me so miserably the last time. The first year of that new relationship was living hell. I wanted the closeness only to push it away. Perhaps I was testing his limits, pushing his buttons to see if he’d leave too. At times, I wanted him to. It would have been a relief from the constant fear of abandonment, the incessant pain.

I hadn’t understood what had made my ex take that violent turn, so I kept waiting for my new boyfriend to do the same. I kept waiting for something to flip him over, for him to shed his sheep clothing and turn into a wolf, to devour me and leave me raw and bleeding while he laughed at my naïvete. I wore my skepticism like an armor. As long as I didn’t trust him, he couldn’t really fool me. But it was no way to live.

It became so bad we almost broke up. But the fear of losing him forced me to get a grip on myself, and slowly, with years of work between both of us, we emerged from the shadows. When will you trust me, he often asked in those first years.

In fifteen years, I’d say jokingly.

I’m ashamed to admit that it almost took that long.

In every respect, this relationship was different from the previous one, but they were both underpinned by one thing that was the same: my need to be seen. To find someone with whom I could be an unabashed version of myself — my overthinking, neurodivergent, often neurotic, intensely-feeling self.

Being hypersensitive is like having a debilitating speech impediment. You understand others — the empathetic side of you makes sure of that — but you yourself are often misunderstood. You learn early on that revealing the full extent of your intense inner life might be met with bewilderment, judgment, even ridicule, so you learn to keep to yourself.

You try to figure out how exactly you’re different, so you try to emulate other people’s behavior (hence my impulse to validate that woman’s implication when she posed that question). But where others speak in words, you are trying to enter the conversation with gestures, and sign and body language, and you never seem to be able to express yourself precisely.

And then someone comes along who understands every word you say. To whom your speech impediment isn’t an impediment at all, but the most beautiful way of expression.

Imagine the ease of it. Suddenly being understood with no effort at all.

Imagine the relief of it.

Now imagine losing it.

The Answer I Gave

As I stood there, in that awkward pause, watching my own face on the Zoom screen, imagining forty people sitting on the other side, awaiting my answer, all of this — all of the above — rushed through me.

But as much as I felt compelled to, on that first impulse, I could not make myself throw Ivona under the bus.

“No,” I answered honestly. “I never once thought that she might give Vlaho up on the inside.”

It’s not so much about clinging to a romantic partner. Perhaps, that’s the least part of it. It just so happened that the person who saw Ivona wasn’t a friend, or a parent, or a relative, but a lover.

Earlier during that call, we’d touched on the setting and how living in Zadar (and, more broadly, Croatia) shaped Ivona’s life. I explained how lonely and unforgiving it is to be a single woman in a town built for families and raising children. Where there is almost nothing to do to pass the time, but meet with one’s friends, if you have any. That making friends after high school can be difficult (unless you’re a parent, because befriending other parents is how you meet people after a certain age). Add to that Ivona’s neurodivergence, which has always made it harder for her to fit in. And then add to that that for her professional fulfillment also isn’t an option. It’s hard to explain the hopelesness and despair of the long winter months in Zadar, alone, with nothing to do, and nowhere to be, nothing to strive for.

I’ve known these women. I’ve seen them taking evening strolls around the town with their elderly moms. I’ve seen them excessively buying clothes they won’t have anywhere to wear because at least it’s something to do. I’ve seen them living in their childhood homes, permanently kid-ified, because they couldn’t even afford a place of their own. I am not saying that a woman needs a career or a man or children to be happy. But I am saying that living in a town like Zadar, earning a pittance in a dead end job and having nothing to fill your time with can be pretty goddamn grim.

[This is why Croatia lost 10% of its population in the last decade. But Ivona can’t even leave because “Who would take care of Dad?”]

We would like to believe that every person can rise above their circumstances, but one hard look around you will tell you it’s a Hollywood fairytale. Zadar is full of people who either don’t have the means, the knowledge, the stamina, or the opportunities to change their situation. So are so many ghettos, projects, small towns, communities around the world. It’s a privilege and a luxury to get to go on a hero’s journey.

In this context, understanding this grim reality, knowing that the only source of light for Ivona is getting to see the one person who understands her even when she isn’t saying anything at all; the person who thinks (or at least thought) she is worthy, and beautiful, and full of potential, it becomes easy to see it for a lifeline that it is.

How do you give up on that?

How long is too long to cling to a lifeline?

I explained all this that evening to the people attending the book club.

The host told me it’d even drawn some tears.

For a brief while I felt vindicated.

The Lesson I Learned

But it kept nagging at me. I kept churning the whole situation over long after I hung up the call, in a true fashion of a chronic overthinker.

I had ‘defended’ my book, but I can’t go around explaining this to every reader, can I? Which only made me think, if I have to explain my book and defend it, I didn’t do a very good job of writing it convincingly.

[I will not go into why I feel the need to defend the book against a smattering of bad reviews, when the vast majority of them are positive 🙄 because it would require an entire post to tackle.]

Putting a book out there, especially one as intimate and character-driven as Slanting Towards the Sea, can be a challenging experience. It often feels like I’ve invited the scrutiny of my most intimate thoughts, the truest parts of myself—the same parts that I jealously keep hidden in real life.

Every criticism feels like a gunshot wound.

Shame, despair, rancor come gushing out like sticky hot blood.

Isn’t this what we come to books for?, I sometimes want to yell at those reviewers. Not only to validate our emotions or personal experience but to broaden our views, to understand that others might not do or feel the same as we do? Isn’t this the whole point??

But, I’m learning, this too is a question of empathy.

To allow others to read the book as their own experience allows them. To not see what they don’t want to or can’t or refuse to see or understand. To disagree even if they see it all. To say it’s insane, ludicrous, and that they would never— ever—.

By resisting their feedback, am I not doing the same? Invalidating their experience, and their view of the world?

I’m grateful for the experience of being asked and allowed to answer that woman’s question [I have to emphasize here, though reviewers can sometimes be harsh, this woman was nothing but kind, and not in the least judgmental or harsh in posing her question; I do believe she asked it out of genuine curiosity, and not because she disagreed with that choice]. It allowed me to explain Ivona’s situation in its full, gruesome glory and at first I thought that was the point. To defend my book.

But instead it taught me that even the harshest critique means that there are people seeing world completely differently than I do, and that’s okay.

Perhaps, if I allowed them to expand on their reviews the way I was allowed to expand on my choices during book club, I might yet understand them, even if I didn’t agree.

And what more could an author want from her book than to ignite conversations that leave us more open to other people’s perspectives?

Thank you for reading For Love of Words!

My publication is free, but if you enjoy my content, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my novel, SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA, out from Simon & Schuster in the US, and Daunt Books in the UK!

Purchase a copy

Sad girl lit is a term that’s been making rounds in the literary circles in the last few years, and I will admit to loving quite a few books from this sub-genre of lit fic. It’s a broad term that covers a range of contemporary female experiences — from sadness, to depression and anxiety, to female rage, to disaffectation and dissociation, to all sorts of anti-social, unhinged behaviors. Usually, it’s tied to young women, often Millennials, who are feeling unhappy or unmoored despite the fact that they’re living fairly privileged lives.

This is a broad overview, but Googling the term will show you that it’s not easy to find a consensus on what sad girl lit is, or to define the kind of protagonist that sits at its core.

In the article In Defense of the Sad Girl Lit, Align Magazine writes:

“The internet defines the literary sad girl as “self-destructive, sloppy, and filled with rage.” She makes poor life decisions and sleeps with her makeup still on (if she sleeps at all). A repackaging of the 2012 Tumblr Sad Girl™. She hates herself and the world around her, and looks good doing it. She lives a life of privilege devoid of real consequences, and things typically work out for her in the end. Sad girl novels exist on a spectrum where “sad” becomes synonymous with hot, and cool. […] Girls are so caught up in themselves that everything about the rest of the world turns into attacks on the self.”

Conversely, lovereading.co.uk says that "Sad Girl Literature" is a relatively new term coined to categorise literature where trauma, vulnerability and a female main character take the stage. They may be thoroughly average yet feel like their life is falling apart. They may self-sabotage. They may experience depression. They may desire the wrong people. Do the wrong thing. Shocking, isn’t it? That they may leap out of the page as humans.”

Think unhinged unravelling in Days of Abandonment by Elena Ferrante; the self-destructive S&M tendencies of Marianne in Sally Rooney’s Normal People (and yes, almost all her other characters are poster image of the sad girl lit too). Think My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh.

What I love about the sad girl lit trend is the fact that it allows women to enter the spotlight. Most literature, like much of society, tends to objectify women—positioning them as caretakers, compliant and self-sacrificing, serving others at the expense of themselves. Sad girl lit resists that impulse. It grants women subjectivity and complexity, allowing them to feel the full spectrum of human emotions—even the selfish, resentful, rageful, unpleasant ones that are usually reserved only for men. It allows them to act irrationally, to behave badly, and to take up space—even when it’s inconvenient for others or damaging to themselves. As proagonists, these women are often considered unlikeable (and I use this term cautiously, because they are often perceived as unlikable precisely because they are not conforming to what society is asking all women to be; or because they ask more for themselves than the society thinks they deserve).

These books often trace some sort of unraveling; the line may get blurry between reality and fantasy (or the protagonist’s own delusions). There is often something unsettling and sinister about the atmosphere; and the overt emotionality of these women often pushes them over the edge during the novel’s climax.

While technically my book falls under the broader spectrum of sad girl lit, as it features an introspective, sad, and sometimes resentful female protagonist who unapologetically wants a better life for herself, I never felt like Slanting Towards the Sea fully and unequivocally fit the sad girl lit bill.

My protagonist isn’t unhinged, or destructive, or angry. She is just sensitive—she feels everything deeply. She overthinks. She is introspective and contemplative, but not in a destabilizing, destructive way.

She says of herself:

“[…] I’m always like this. Overthinking. Overfeeling. Overreacting. I’m an uncovered nerve and everything touches me, everything causes me pain. Even pleasure does. Even love.”

She isn’t privileged in the traditional sense, either. Though she lives in Croatia, a developed country that has carved out its place within the global West in the last couple of decades, life here is still often limited by the bureaucratic red tape, nepotism, and gray economy. Living here put constraints on my protagonist; challenging her in ways that are unavoidable and yet very real; preventing her from reaching her full potential, which she struggles to reconcile herself to, because there is an essential force inside her telling her there’s more to life than this.

In other words, unlike the usual sad lit girl, she isn’t destructive, though she is sensitive. She is sad, yes; not because this is her natural disposition, but because there’s a cavernous gap between the life she had wanted and the one she got.

Sensitive girl lit

Sensitive girl lit is a sub-genre of sad girl lit that focuses specifically on protagonists who are emotionally vulnerable, introspective, and quietly struggling, rather than those who are outright “unhinged” or melodramatic.

These protagonists feel the world acutely, and are shaped by longing, disappointment, and subtle, unavoidable heartbreaks of life. They notice the textures of silence in a conversation, trace the emotional undercurrents in a room; they are attuned to the ache of small digs people make at them. Where Sad Girl Lit often foregrounds visible breakdowns, Sensitive Girl Lit lingers in emotional nuance. The stakes are interior. The drama is muted. But the impact can be just as devastating—sometimes more so, because it feels like real life.

These protagonists feel deeply and lead rich interior lives, which often complicates things for them, and makes it difficult to deal with life’s challenges. They dissect their place in the world, relationships, and psychological make-up of people that surround them with astonishing emotional acuity.

They suffer a great deal, because they can always feel this difference between themselves and others, and have a hard time accepting that.

Case in point:

To people who don’t experience the world in this acute way, who are more practical and level in their emotions, who have a tendency to steer away from the painful and vulnerable parts of life, these books may be a difficult read. These protagonists may seem like hopeless navel-gazers who like to wallow in their misery.

But to those readers who have a rich interior life, who overthink and overfeel every situation; who can’t tune out the enormous impact that emotions have on their lives, who love so deeply it almost breaks them, who can’t help but sit in their feelings… they will see themselves in these books, and they will feel redeemed.

1. Writers & Lovers by Lily King
An intimate, tender exploration of grief, ambition, and the adult-coming-of-age through the eyes of a sensitive woman struggling to find her footing in love and art.

2. My Name Is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout
Confronted with a hospital visit from her difficult mother, a temporarily bedridden woman revisits her fraught childhood and fragile identity with understated grace and emotional clarity.

3. Here After by Amy Lin
A delicate, haunting memoir tracing a young woman’s journey through falling in love, and losing the love of her life in early thirties. Made all the more harrowing for the author’s innate sensitivity, her search for meaning will break your heart a thousand times over.

4. Thirst for Salt by Madelaine Lucas
A richly imagined, resonant, sensual novel following a life span of a love affair between a younger woman and an older man. Permeated with longing and regret, it shows the impact one such affair can have on a sensitive woman long after the break-up.

5. Slanting Towards the Sea by Lidija Hilje
An atmospheric novel about a woman who gives up the love of her life—not because her love has faded, but because sometimes love can’t withstand the weight of reality. A poignant exploration of what it means to come of age in a country still finding its footing.

6. Acts of Desperation by Megan Nolan
A raw, confessional dive into the complexities of love, loneliness, and self-doubt, told through the introspective lens of a young woman grappling with emotional fragility and obsessive desire.

Thank you for reading For Love of Words!

My publication is free, but if you enjoy my content, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my novel, SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA, out from Simon & Schuster in the US, and Daunt Books in the UK!

Purchase a copy

July 8, 2025

i wake up a published author

grab the book to take a photo and remember the day I gave birth to my firstborn daughter, and how everything felt the same way, glorious and precarious. Will I be able to keep her alive? i wondered then.

i wonder now.

and then, also — she is here.

and, have faith.

taking the book baby around the town to take a photo, i haven’t taken any with my finished copy yet. what i see now, when i pore over those photos is only one thing

joy

coffee on riva with my husband, who always listens when I talk about books and today is no exception. i’m grateful. a pigeon photobombs the video I’m taking. my husband and i laugh. what a privilege to have a life where you notice these things, where you can laugh about pigeons on the day your book has come out on another continent

on our way back home we meet my ex-boss. she says her office moved, asks how i’m doing, writing going well for you?

yes, terrific, i say, but don’t tell her about pub day.

as long as it makes you happy, she says.

at home, the notifications start pouring in. congratulations, congratulations, they say. then photos, my book baby cloned, in other people’s hands

everywhere, everywhere

in a single day, it got born and it turned eighteen. i’m the parent trying to hold on while reminding myself it’s time to let go.

be safe out there, i want to tell it.

read with care, i want to tell everyone who comes in contact with it.

photos of my books on display in bookstore. happiness — look how good it looks!; sadness — will i ever see it in a bookstore myself?

the doorbell rings

flowers. somewhere in new england, one of my friends is rejoycing with me.

doorbell, again

a bucket of flowers sent by my mother. i sob, even though i have a launch party in half an hour.

i dress up and go on zoom

friends come, and cheer, and clap. they read my words with so much emotion my own throat tingles.

when the day exhales, i put the book on the shelf and go to bed

it is done, it’s out.

i’d given it my all, i’d worked so hard, especially this last trimester, stretched myself too thin for it in so many ways, and not everything turned out the way i wanted or expected, but all i feel now is relief

it’s out there, its own person, with its separate destiny; like my children, it will forever be tied to me, but we are not one and the same anymore, it has its own life now

and i have some of mine back

July 9-16

• this is undoubtedly my book of the year

• lush, lyrical, and full,of quiet revelations

• this book is stunning in all aspects.

• couldn’t stand the protagonist

• There is so much about this book that reminds me of life in Croatia. Visiting my grandmother, who also lives in Zadar, and drinking cup after cup of Turkish coffee; the fruits of the summer, the pebbles lining the beaches, the salty breeze that stirs the olive trees, the traditional foods, the resentment over the past, the disillusionment toward the present, the bare concrete houses that contrast the mesmerizing Old Town.

• Hilje captures the ache of unfulfilled potential with poetic precision

• fans of Jhumpa Lahiri, Elena Ferrante, or the melancholic intimacy of Julian Barnes will feel at home here. But Hilje’s voice is all her own—lush, lyrical, and full of quiet revelations that linger long after the final page.

• Hilje establishes herself as a writer to watch. Slanting Toward the Sea is an unmissable debut.

• Hilje captures the Balkan spirit with unflinching clarity. How so many of us came of age alongside our countries, navigating personal chaos in tandem with national instability.

• a masterful debut… cinematic, introspective, and unafraid to dwell in discomfort.

• I fear Hilje has set the bar high for herself, and yet by the same token, her exquisite writing illustrates that she is up for the challenge.

• I do not usually highlight many quotes in a book, and yet I found myself highlighting passage after passage here.

• horribly selfish I couldn’t stand it

• I loved it and am certain it will be one of my "best books" of 2025.

• I really wanted to like this book, but it just wasn't the book for me. I highly disliked Ivona, who was the main character. Yes, she battled depression, her mother died, & she found out she couldn't get pregnant, but her reaction to all of that was to wallow in her misery and divorce the love of her life

• My heart is broken as a woman.

• I loved this book so much and will think about it for a long time.

• Oh this book. It was such an emotional book that tugged at my heart the entire time. It really was deep and very raw at times which made it hurt viscerally.

• the best books I read are often the hardest ones to review. How can I properly articulate how beautiful the writing is in this book? How engrossed I was? How much I was rooting for the characters?

• Love story for the ages.

• 3.5⭐️ Slow and oh so sad.

• A perfect novel. No notes.

July 17

UK pub day

woke up to rain, unusual for a summer day in Croatia, maybe an atmospheric connection to london? we’re in this together now, as Nine Inch Nails would say

no coffee in town, I guess; no photos will be taken this morning

but at least i don’t have to wait for it all to kick in—unlike the US, the UK is awake when I am

congratulations, congratulations, the texts say

is this real? is it selfish that i’m enjoying it?

don’t fly too high, goes the saying.

but if not now, when?

and then, if i fail, then what?

i watch the beautiful beige cover make rounds on instagram

waiting for the cake and flowers i sent to my publishing team to arrive

such joy when they’re delivered, they say they feel treasured

i say i feel blessed

i do

to have people who deeply care about this novel — my agents, my editors, both my publishing teams… it’s not only a blessing, it’s a miracle

what if i fail them?

i stave the thought off

the first print run was sold out before pub day, is the word from my UK publisher

i’m speechless. how many people bought my book, exactly?

the first media review trickles in

poignant and evocative, exploring first love with an intensity so raw that reading feels like pressing on a bruise

and also

potential is what this novel is about, and how easily it can slip through our fingers

in the evening the weather clears

my husband takes me out for sushi

takes photos of me with the book

he takes the worst photos, i look like a seal, double chin and all

do i really look like this?

he says i grimace when he’s taking my photos

i say he doesn’t know how to take them

we laugh, i snap a few selfies with the book instead

see? you don’t make that face when you’re taking them, he says

I make sure my angle is good, i tell him, you make sure you’re done quicky

back at home, in my apartment in zadar croatia, i wait to hear if my book will echo out there, or if the silence of it falling through the cracks is all I’ll hear

that journalist was right

potential is what this novel is about now.

Thank you for reading For Love of Words!

My publication is free, but if you enjoy my content, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my novel, SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA, out from Simon & Schuster in the US, and Daunt Books in the UK!

Purchase a copy

There are two reading seasons that hold special appeal: winter and summer.

In winter, there’s nothing better than curling up under a blanket by the fireplace, candles and Christmas lights twinkling in the background, and the scent of a freshly baked apple pie cooling on the kitchen counter.

In summer, the magic shifts. It’s about being near water — a pool, a lake, or preferably (at least for me) the sea. You’re stretched out on a towel under a parasol, the scent of sunscreen in the air, the sun warming your skin.

Both seasons invite a certain kind of book.

Winter calls for something weightier — gritty, layered novels like Demon Copperhead or A Little Life. Or perhaps something provocative like Yellowface, or sweeping and emotional like The Most Fun We Ever Had.

Summer, on the other hand, draws us to stories that are tender, thoughtful, reflective, human, and deeply realistic — slices of life pressed between covers. Stories of complex relationships, forgiveness, and quiet redemption.

If you're in the mood for the same, here are some wonderful books to add to your summer TBR pile.

Thank you for reading For Love of Words! My publication is free, but if you enjoy my content, please consider supporting me by pre-ordering a copy of my novel, SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA, out July 8,2025 from Simon & Schuster.

Pre-order Slanting Towards the Sea

1. Thirst for Salt* by Madelaine Lucas

There is no book that says “sea” as much as Madelaine Lucas’ Thirst for Salt. Set in a fictional seaside town in southern Australia, it follows an unnamed protagonist as she falls in love with the emotionally unavailable older man, Jude. The sea frames and shapes and tempers their fraught relationship. Longing, sensuality, regret, coming-of-age and coming-to-terms… this book gripped me from the first sentence, and never let me go.

2. Lucy By the Sea* by Elizabeth Strout

Set during the pandemic, Lucy and her ex-husband William leave behind the chaos of New York City for a quiet house on the coast of Maine, beside the moody, ever-shifting sea. As the world slows down, the isolation brings old emotions to the surface. Over the course of several months, Lucy and William find themselves confronting the complexities of their past and their complicated relationship that suddenly starts echoing loudly amidst the isolating silence of the pandemic.

3. Banyan Moon* by

Set along the Florida coast, in a house that feels like a character in its own right, an estranged mother and daughter reunite to mourn the death of their family’s matriarch. Told through the perspectives of three generations of the Tran women—each grappling with the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future—the novel explores the echoes of generational trauma, identity, regret, and the ways we carve out a place for ourselves in the world.

4. Playground by Richard Powers

I adored Powers’ previous novel, Bewilderment, and the way he weaved in a speculative element in an innovative, literary narrative. I haven’t yet read this one, but according to the book jacket copy blurb, the author has done it again in Playground. In it, four lives converge on a remote island in the Pacific. Four characters, Evie, Ina, Rafi, and Todd—are each shaped by curiosity, loss, and the search for meaning. Set against the backdrop of a proposed floating city project, this richly imagined novel explores the collision of technology, environment, and the enduring ties that connect us all.

5. Sea Wife by Amity Gaige

I posted a story about my husband choosing to take Sea Wife on vacation yesterday, alongside some other books, and immediately got replies to the story from several people whose book opinion I appreciate immensely, telling me it was one of their favorite books and to read it ASAP. I have always been drawn to books and narratives set on a sailboat; there is something so special about the juxtaposition of such a confined space with the vastness of the ocean. In Sea Wife, a young family trades suburban life for a year aboard a sailboat bound for Panama—an adventure that tests their marriage, identities, and survival. I might have to snatch this from my husband’s hands!

6. Slanting Towards the Sea* by Lidija Hilje

It may be a shameless plug to feature my own novel on this list, but I do feel it earns its place here. Set along Croatia’s coastal region, the sea is ever-present force that shapes the mood, the landscape, and the characters, becoming a force of its own. Slanting Towards the Sea follows a woman in her late thirties as she grapples with the heartbreak of a life that hasn’t turned out as she hoped—or deserved. Having divorced the love of her life, she finds herself drawn back into his orbit as he starts a new family. But when someone new enters her life, the fragile balance begins to fracture, and the perspectives of all four entwined lives begin to collide.

Pre-order Slanting Towards the Sea

7. Hot Milk by Deborah Levy

Another one that’s been on my TBR, and I can’t wait to sink my teeth into. Set on the sun-soaked Spanish coast, Hot Milk follows a mother and daughter seeking a cure for the mother’s mysterious illness from a controversial doctor with dubious intentions. As they navigate the heat and the village’s hypnotic rhythms and seductive people who move through it, these two women will start seeing their lives in ways they hadn’t expected.

8. The Paper Palace* by Miranda Cowley Heller

No seaside reading list would be complete without The Paper Palace. Set on Cape Cod, in a summer home steeped in family history and long-buried secrets, it follows Elle, a woman who, in a single day, must decide between the devoted husband she built a life with and the childhood love she’s never truly let go. As the past and present collide, Elle sifts through decades of memory, trauma, and desire to uncover the truth of what—and who—she really wants.

* Books marked with the asterisk are the ones I’ve read (or, in case of SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA, wrote myself) so I can fully and enthusiastically endorse these; as for the ones that are still on my TBR, I have heard exceptional things so I believe them to be great reads.

My novel, SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA is now available for pre-order. Pre-orders are crucial for authors: they signal to their publisher, booksellers, and librarians that this is a book worth paying attention to. It would mean the world to me if you pre-ordered, or shared news about my book with someone who might like it. You can also add it on Goodreads on your to-read shelf.

Links for pre-order: Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, Books-A-Million, Amazon.

I’m not talking about actual visualization — representation of authorial journey through a series of images. It was more an act of ideation: if I could see all that goes into working on a successful novel, writing a good query, finding an agent, getting a publishing deal, etc… I might break all those huge leaps into tiny steps that I could actually take.

And this ended up being true. With much practice at mastering all the small moving parts of this journey, I was ultimately able to walk the tightrope toward publishing my own debut, Slanting Towards the Sea.

Now I find myself in a place I most love to be — able to give back. As a Simon & Schuster author, I’m surrounded by brilliant fellow authors from my own imprint and beyond. I am able to ask questions and listen in on their success stories. And I am able to bring those stories to you.

This is the first in a nascent series of author interviews I hope to bring to you. It features a “three-for-three” format: asking the author three questions on story/craft/publishing journey each.

PORT ANNA and LIBBY BUCK — brief introduction

I don’t know about you, but I am forever drawn to books set in Maine. There is something about the somber, rugged beauty of the Maine coastline that really calls to me, as do the images of its many lighthouses. And I have never seen the Maine setting brought to life quite the same as in Libby Buck’s debut, Port Anna. Most Maine books tend to unfold over the summer, when the nature is at its prettiest and most manageable. But Port Anna doesn’t play into those expectations. Instead, it shows Maine at its coldest, grittiest, harshest. What a treat for this reader that was!

At the novel’s heart is Gwen Gilmore, a woman in her late thirties, who’s lost almost everything, and is driving up to her old family cabin in Maine to try and find her footing in life again. There, she is met with some old friends – many of whom have changed in ways that don't necessarily meet the eye; the broader community that’s eager to welcome Gwen back; a couple of benevolent ghosts, called the Misses; a mystery to solve; and the many dark shadows of her troublesome past. I was first drawn in by the evocative setting, as well as a curiosity about what happened in Gwen’s past and whether she would find a way back into her community’s fold – and back to herself. But as the winter tightened its grip over Maine and Gwen’s financial troubles took an even more sinister turn, I found myself sitting at the edge of my seat, unable to stop turning the pages.

I would also be remiss not to mention the many parallels there were between Port Anna and Slanting Towards the Sea –– a protagonist in her late thirties, whose life turned out to be nothing like she’d once hoped, and who needs to find a way to reimagine herself; a battle to save a beloved family property; an emergence of romantic feelings that complicate the already complex relationships in her life…

Without further ado, I bring to you the first in a nascent series of author interviews, and am honored to present to you the lovely Libby Buck, the author of Port Anna, forthcoming from Simon & Schuster on July 1, 2025.

Story:

1. Do you remember the very first kernel of an idea for “Port Anna?” What was that first bit of inspiration that got you interested in pursuing this particular story?

I had a meeting with my agent mid-pandemic. At that time, driving to Maine was complicated—there were very few respirators in the state, and healthcare systems could be easily overwhelmed. For several months, I wasn’t sure I could get there, and I had started to feel a little desperate. Maine had always been my “safe” place, the place I went when I felt lost or overwhelmed. Something about the landscape, the rugged beauty of it, and the courage it takes for those tough old pine trees to withstand the onslaught of winter moves me. And the people, too, who are so reserved and so loving at the same time. I missed all of it. A few months earlier, I had submitted a short piece about the cottage my parents had owned when I was young, so this attachment was very much on my mind. When my agent asked about projects in the pipeline, I told him I wanted to write a love story to the state. His enthusiasm fueled mine. I came back from breakfast and sat at my desk, planning to write an outline. I prefer to write methodically, building the book up step by step. (I’m certain this is due to my academic training.) But rather than sketching out characters and scenes, I found myself writing about a woman crossing the bridge over the Piscataqua River that separates New Hampshire from Maine at midnight. So, of course, I had to ask: what was she running from, and where was she going? What had happened to her life? The words flowed, and I just kept writing until the book was done.

2. This novel covers a lot of ground – a character starting over in midlife; grief; childhood trauma; a second chance at life and love, saving a beloved family property... what was the part that was most interesting for you to explore and why?

I have always believed that art has the power to heal our wounds. Even my work as an academic bent toward that theme. As I began Port Anna, I was interested in discovering how a person in the midst of a life crisis might find their way back to wholeness while surrounded by things laden with difficult memories.

I am descended from several generations of packrats, all of whom died way too young, and I spent much of my adult life thinking about art objects. As a result, I am comfortable asking questions about provenance and meaning. So, it made sense to me that my character would, like me, find solace in books, paintings, and furniture, much of which was sticky with competing histories of joy and loss and regret. Above all, I wanted to write about how someone can recover from trauma and learn to make sense of grief.

I think this is something we share. Your lovely book, Slanting Towards the Sea, touches upon themes of loss—of self and of love and of an imagined future—and how we can move beyond it.

3. I'm always interested in how a writer's personal life informs their novel. If you feel comfortable sharing, are there any parts of this novel that were inspired by your own life, your personal struggles, or experiences?

The simplest answer to this question is the story of the cottage. When I was young, my parents owned a small summer house on the coast of Maine that my siblings and I adored. Like Periwinkle, it was quite simple but also utterly magical since it faced the ocean. We spent hours exploring the tidal pools out front and the woods out back. When my parents divorced and they sold it, we were heartbroken. In many ways, the sale of that house represented the loss of my family. Writing about Periwinkle returned the joy of my childhood to me.

The other thread that hits close to home is my mother’s story. She lost a sister when she was very young and has carried that grief all her life. I dedicated the book to her and her sisters, including Eleanor, the sister who died. As I mentioned, I believe in the healing power of art. Perhaps Gwen’s story might offer a glimmer of hope to someone else who struggles with a loss of that magnitude.

Craft:

1. “Port Anna”is a genre-bending novel: it has a mystery element, a suspense element, a romantic storyline, ghosts. Most importantly, it's a story about the emotional journey of the protagonist, Gwen Gilmore. In his letter to the reader, your editor, Tim O'Connell brilliantly observed that “Port Anna” is ultimately a fairy tale, and this is what it felt like to be reading it, as the story had a dreamlike quality to it. How did you manage to weave all these threads into a coherent, smooth narrative?

I deeply love fairy tales, those foundational stories that narrate who we are. To this day, I am riveted by the power that they can wield. And, as a child, my experience of Maine was that of a fairy tale, a mysterious, dark-wooded landscape flecked with salt where mosses and pale plants sprout beneath ancient tree trunks. I definitely wanted to convey that sense of wonder in the text.

But you’re right, there were other threads to consider. At times, especially towards the end of the book, I would occasionally find myself overwhelmed. Thankfully, I have the benefit of a great writing partner, Alpin Geist, who, as a YA author, is very plot-driven. They keep me on task when I veer into slow descriptions. At each meeting, they would remind me if I’d dropped a thread. And Tim helped me cut away the chaff.

2. The Maine setting is a huge asset to this book. I particularly love that you focused more on the winter aspect of life in Maine than on the summer one, which I feel is predominant in books set there. There is a lot of talk about winterizing the house, and there is so much cold that my bones felt frozen as I was reading. Did evoking this setting come naturally to you or did you have to work at it? What advice do you have for writers who are trying to write setting-as-character?

I didn’t have to work too hard to imagine how it would feel to huddle inside an unheated cottage exposed to the wind. As someone who is sensitive to the cold, it wasn’t difficult. Additionally, I have spent time in Maine during the winter, including a particularly remarkable February. But I also relied heavily upon my friends’ descriptions of the very cold stretches, how the damp chill reaches into your bones, how you dream of warmth.

I think the best advice for authors considering place as a character is to spend as much time as possible in the setting. The more, the better. Before I start writing, I tend to write biographies for all the characters. (Gwen and Shania were the exceptions: they just showed up on the page, and I wrote the bios later.) It’s advisable to do the same for a place. Getting clear on how and why you’re drawn to the setting also helps.

Your book beautifully evokes the Croatian coast, somewhere I have never been. And yet, reading your descriptions, I was able to picture it and imagine myself there. And, by the way, I had never considered the magic of an old olive tree before I read Slanting towards the Sea, and now I am riveted.

3. One of the most compelling components of the novel were the Misses, the two ghosts who haunt and protect Gwen's beloved cottage, Periwinkle. The house itself is a character, and the ghosts bring it to life. You did such a wonderful job of making them an integral part of the manuscript. Where did the idea come from?

The cottage my parents owned was haunted by the two women who built it. Like the Misses, they had been professors. When we bought the house, we inherited their furniture and books and photo albums. I have one still. They were not nearly as loud and disruptive as the Misses in Port Anna, but my brother, a toddler at the time, did fall asleep at night giggling. My mother maintains that he had whole conversations with them. And Maine is the kind of place where people talk about ghosts as if they’re in the next room. I once attended a dinner party in a very old home, creaky and a bit shabby, and asked if there was a resident ghost. I was assured that, yes, there was. At that moment, the dog walked to the staircase, ears pricked, and the door mysteriously closed.

“The cottage my parents owned was haunted by the two women who built it. Like the Misses, they had been professors.”

Publishing journey:

1. Can you tell us about your querying process? How did you go about finding an agent? Was your querying process slow and harrowing, or quick and satisfying?

I don’t think anything about the query process is quick and satisfying. I wish it were. I had written another novel, partly historical, based on the research I did as an art historian. Manuscript in hand, I attended several conferences that offered sessions with agents. All of them were very nice, but all handed the pages back to me with comments that meant no. Over the years, I responded to their suggestions and criticisms, reworking the novel many times as a result. (I suppose I had learned resilience and perseverance from my years as an academic. A PhD is earned as much through stubbornness as research skills.) I just kept going, kept trying, kept editing. I won’t lie, there were some hard days and a lot of tears. Eventually, a friend from college, who worked as a part-time editor, asked an agent she knew if he was interested. After he read the manuscript, he sent me a contract. (That book, though, is still sitting on my desktop, unsold. Someday, I hope, I will find the magic sauce that will make it better.)

2. What was your editing process (post-acquisition) like? How much of an overhaul did the book require, and what were the main pointers you'd gotten from your editor at Simon & Schuster?

As I mentioned, I wrote this book stream-of-consciousness—not something I’d advise anyone to do, by the way—so it desperately needed trimming. I had spent way too much time describing the beauty of the Maine coastline at the expense of the plot. My editor rightly pushed me to cut those lengthy passages and urged me to get to the heart of the story. Over the course of three months, he gave the manuscript a very close read. Honestly, it was such a gift to see someone dive right in and “get” the point of the story. It probably took another three months to respond to his edits, followed by another month or so of back-and-forth. I wouldn’t call that an overhaul as much as a tightening.

“(I suppose I had learned resilience and perseverance from my years as an academic. A PhD is earned as much through stubbornness as research skills). I just kept going, kept trying, kept editing. I won’t lie, there were some hard days and a lot of tears.”

3. You came to writing relatively late in life, after pursuing a different career for many years. In fact, you have a PhD in Art History from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and you worked in academia for many years. At what point did you start thinking about pursuing writing, and how much did your first career inform your author journey and the process of writing Port Anna?

When I started college, I wanted to be a writer. I took a variety of creative writing courses, particularly in poetry. But didn’t take long to discover that I wasn’t a very good poet. In the wake of that “failure” (I put it in parentheses since I no longer view it that way), an exceptionally gifted teacher, Lydia Gasman, drew me into art history. Her area of expertise was early modern, with an emphasis on Picasso, whom I despised, yet her descriptions of artwork and the project of artmaking seduced me. After graduation, I got a job as a gallery assistant on the Upper East Side of Manhattan at a time when the art market was starting to really explode.

A few years later, I went to graduate school. I finished my master’s at Columbia and then transferred to UNC, where I taught part-time until 2010. I enjoyed the teaching and, for the most part, enjoyed the formal writing. Mainly, I loved the objects I studied, the Symbolists and Post-Impressionists. But I was working as an adjunct, a position that is incredibly challenging since you’re underpaid and terribly undervalued. Eventually, as much as I loved the students, I grew sick of that. At the time, I thought I was only taking a sabbatical, but I never returned to the classroom.

After many years as an academic, I struggled to find a plan. I had the idea that I could utilize my research to write a creative nonfiction book. But, as it turned out, the story I wanted to write needed to be fiction, and once I started, something unlocked for me. Of course, my training still has a way of surfacing. I still think a great deal about objects and how they inform or affect lives, both real and fictional.

A big THANK YOU to Libby Buck for sharing details from ideating, crafting, and publishing her beautiful debut novel Port Anna. I truly hope this conversation inspires you to read this enchanting and riveting book, as well as to keep pursuing your dreams, whatever they may be. Port Anna is available for pre-order wherever you get your books. Connect with Libby on Instagram @libbybuckwrites—trust me, she is absolutely fabulous!

My novel, SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA is now available for pre-order. Pre-orders are crucial for authors: they signal to their publisher, booksellers, and librarians that this is a book worth paying attention to. It would mean the world to me if you pre-ordered, or shared news about my book with someone who might like it. You can also add it on Goodreads on your to-read shelf.

Links for pre-order: Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, Books-A-Million, Amazon.

Six years ago, I sat in my law firm, mourning the end of my legal career. Both my husband and I had peaked career-wise, and it was not in a good place. He was an iOS programmer; I, an attorney; and between the two of us, we were struggling to make ends meet. We had graduated right after the 2008 crisis, and both got pay-cuts before we ever cashed in our first paychecks. And in the years that followed, as Croatia struggled to climb out of recession, we struggled to feed and clothe ourselves and our kids.

While we had been interns, this kind of struggle was expected, but as we neared our mid-thirties, and seemingly climbed the ladder (him, by mastering several difficult programming languages; me, by passing the bar exam and obtaining my attorney practicing license), and as our family increased by a factor of two, both our expectations and stakes rose. Yet, our wages remained modest, while the prices skyrocketed. To afford something as essential as a family car, one of us would need to dedicate three full years of income, leaving the four of us to get by on just the other salary, and we were barely surviving on two.

It was the sort of subversive despair that’s hard to explain. As an attorney, you can’t tell people you’re broke, because it goes against people’s expectations of what attorneys make; and also there is an image of success you need to project if you are to attract clients. But at the same time, I was broke. And I was constantly terrified of our car or dishwasher or fridge breaking down, because we didn’t have the money to repair it. When seasons changed and my daughters outgrew their clothes and shoes, I would often face a painful choice—whose shoes do I buy first, and who gets theirs in a couple of months? A few times, when expenditures struck, seeing our distress prompted our seven-year-old to offer us to tap into her piggy bank. A few times, I’m ashamed to admit, we had to take her up on it.

We’d felt cheated. All our lives we’d been told that if we only did well at school, if we went to college and graduated, if we were hardworking and diligent, we would live well. I will never forget the shock when I realized all of that was a load of baloney. The wages in Croatia were not enough to live on, not as interns, and even less so as fully-fledged professionals. Neurosurgeons and judges barely made more than average cashiers. And when Croatia joined the EU, people like us—meaning, people who didn’t have real-estate to sell, or rent to tourists, or didn’t work in the gray economy—were flocking out of the country.

The frustration my husband and I both felt at the injustice of this—for trying so hard, only to end up in this state of borderline poverty—sucked all the joy out of our lives. Our wages were already the best we’d ever get in Croatia, and all we could expect going forward was an occasional raise that would barely curbs the rising inflation. That realization struck us to the core, and once it did, we knew we were done. We couldn’t live like this. We wouldn’t live like this.

I knew attorneys earned well in other countries, but differing legal systems made true comparisons difficult. However, my husband did the exact same work, using the same coding language, as his colleagues in the UK, US, and Germany — yet they earned four, five, even six times more. And with tourism driving up prices, the cost of living in Croatia wasn’t much lower than in those countries.

My husband started applying for work outside Croatia. I scoured the ads for him, and he submitted his application for every job he was qualified for, both freelance and regular work, both remote and in-house positions.

As he was in the process of interviewing for a job in Ireland, I sat in my law office, bewildered. What if he got the job? We would have to uproot our family and move to a country we never even visited. A country whose language our children didn’t speak. We would have to figure out our way around Dublin, find a good neighborhood, enroll our kids in a school there. And when my husband went to work, and our kids went to school, what would I do? My legal education was tied to our country and its legal system. In Croatia, I was an attorney. In Ireland, I would be a nobody. If we moved there, fifteen years of studying law, then practicing it, would be thrown down the drain.

Sometimes, this would hit me so hard, that I would lock my office door, and cry until I wouldn’t think I’d be able to stop. I felt like I was being flayed of the very identity I’d worked so hard all those years to earn. Who was I, if not a lawyer?

But, over time, what started as a desperate mantra morphed into a real question. Who could I be, if not a lawyer?

I had decided what I wanted to be when I had been eighteen, and never again questioned it. I plowed through law school, my career a straight line from there. I didn’t always like it, it was a life of being constantly in conflict—with the opposing counsel, with the judge, sometimes even with your own client who didn’t get the legal reality of their situation—but I’d never questioned it.

And now I took a long hard look at it to see that even beyond it not paying much, I hated my job. I hated that it drained me emotionally. I hated that so much of the time, the solutions of disputes were simple but people made it hard because of their pettiness and malice. I hated that the dirtier someone played, the more chance they had of winning, despite how in the wrong (legally speaking) they were. My job had made me distrust the system, and people. It made me shrink, instead of expand.

And then I imagined another version of me, somewhere in Ireland, and asked her what would she like to do. Something with books, she answered, and the possibilities I would’ve never imagined in Croatia, not with my legal degree in hand, unfurled before me. I could get a job in a bookstore. In time, train to be a librarian. I could write. Maybe work in publishing. My life would be filled with art and books, instead of fights and strife.

One day, my husband came home from work. “I have news,” he said. “I got the remote position. We’re staying in Croatia.”

I jumped off the couch and screamed with joy. We could stay here and not starve. We wouldn’t have to uproot our children, and leave all our family and friends behind. We wouldn’t have to pack up four suitcases and leave into the unknown as so many generations of Croatians before us had done. But as the positive shock wore off, that one question slammed me down. “But what will I do now? I hate my job,” I said to my husband.

Once I’d admitted all the things I’d always hated about being a lawyer in order to accept leaving law behind, I couldn’t unsee it. I couldn’t imagine spending the rest of my life the kind of miserable my job was making me. I had envisioned and attuned myself to that Irish version of myself, the one who worked with books, who wrote books, who woke up light, and happy to start her day. “We can stay here, but I’m not sure I can keep working as an attorney.”

Luckily, with my husband’s new wage, we could afford for me to take a leap of faith and try to reinvent myself. I closed down my law firm—a move that felt as safe as jumping out of an airplane without a parachute. For a while, I volunteered at a foreign rights literary agency (in a matter of days, I’d come from trying cases before Croatian courts to mindless task filling in an agency’s catalogue on Wordpress—don’t ask me how fullfilled I’d felt), but it turned out to be a dead-end. For a while after, I wrote copy for a Danish start-up, but after I’d issued the first invoice, they ended up not paying me (don’t ask how humiliated I felt then). But through it all, there were books, and I slowly found my true passion—writing books, and helping others write theirs— and slowly but surely, it opened itself to me to offer its rewards.

Our desires are like water, I’ve learned—and water always finds a way. Six years ago, I couldn’t even imagine the string of events that would be necessary to take me to where I am now, working as a book coach, my own novel coming out in the US and the UK. Surely, if someone had set out the staggering number of milestones I would have to hit, and roadblocks I would have to overcome, I would’ve deemed it impossible and given up before I ever took the first step. Sometimes, it’s better not to know how difficult the road ahead is, and focus instead solely on that manageable first step. So I worked slowly and steadily, and things opened up, and opportunities arose, and I took them when they did. And here I am, leading the creative life I’d once shyly imagined, sitting heartbroken in my law office. And doing it out of Croatia.

As we were growing up, my generation was told that the twentieth century had been turbulent, with its Spanish influenza, the Great Depression, two World Wars, and a multitude of tectonic economic and technological shifts, and thankfully, toward the end of the century things seemed to be quieting down. We’d all believed that this new millennium would be the era of stability and progress. Humankind finally seemed to agree—at least in principle—on some basic values, like honoring state borders, the value of democracy and diplomacy, and women rights.

My generation trusted this blindly, we’d expected this stability and prosperity to continue when we grew up. But we launched our careers into a recession, and since then, it’s been a steady onslaught of events—the pandemic, wars, the world order crumbling before our eyes, democracy and human rights eroding, the technology turning divisive, climate change turning the world hostile right back at us. It is easy to feel disillusioned with this world, to feel victimized by it, the weight of our failed expectations sitting so heavy on top of us.

But what I learned sitting heartbroken in my law office all those years ago, is that sometimes the disillusion with the way we’d expected things to be only serves as a way to imagine something better. It allows us to shed those preconceived expectations in order to replace them with something infinitely better, infinitely more useful — just the way I shed my attorney identity to assume one that was a truer expression of myself, but one I’d never have pursued if being a lawyer had been just a little more tolerable.

Perhaps now isn’t the time to mourn the loss of those cherished, if imperfectly implemented ideals we once thought we’d all agreed upon—democracy, diplomacy, and human rights. Nor is it the time to surrender to fear and despair as the antagonistic beliefs rise to power. Maybe it’s time to envision a better way altogether. To ask ourselves who could we be going forward? And then turn those desires into water, and allow it to find its way, because it always does.

PS: If you are wondering why I’m writing this today, January 20th, of all days—no particular reason. No particular reason at all.

My novel, SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA is now available for pre-order. Pre-orders are crucial for authors: they signal to their publisher, booksellers, and librarians that this is a book worth paying attention to. It would mean the world to me if you pre-ordered, or shared news about my book with someone who might like it. You can also add it on Goodreads on your to-read shelf.

Links for pre-order: Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, Books-A-Million, Amazon.

As the year is drawing to an end, I find myself wrestling with my shadow again.

My shadow, that’s been a constant companion all my life, sewn tight to my feet from before I can remember.

I will not tell you what my shadow is. I’m not ready to talk about it openly yet, perhaps I never will be. But I will tell you that it’s been there all my life, and it is following me closely wherever I go, sometimes tormenting me, sometimes just sending twinges through me, gentle reminders that it’s always there.

All my life, the shadow has been a filter for everything happening to me, good and bad. Never has anything happened to me—getting married, birthing my children, passing the bar exam, getting laid-off, signing a book deal, not to mention that dull everyday life stuff—that the shadow didn’t cast itself over. All these pivotal and everyday events somehow outshined, filtered, suppressed underneath it.

Professionally, this year has been my best year ever. On January 3rd, I signed with my brilliant agent, someone who had no reason to lift me up or believe in me, and yet she did. In late January, my book—the heart of my heart—went out on submission. In February, there was an auction, and I got a book deal with one of the world’s best publishers, working with a smart, wonderful, and above all, caring editor. These two women that I lovingly call Team Slanting weren’t only a great fit for me professionally. So much of our interaction is benefitial to me in a completely unexpected way—the healthy communication, learning to voice my thoughts and needs because I know it matters—how my book comes out matters to me, and them making it possible by creating a safe space for me to express them. Finding healthy ways to work around any issues, or disagreements, because there is always that willingness, on both sides, to get along. Why is this such a rare thing?

Privately, this has not been the worst of my years, not even by a long shot. There were much, much worse years. But always, there is the shadow, and at one point this year, the shadow cost me something I love very, very dearly. Something that I can honestly say I love most, right after my family. It is the kind of loss that left me literally unable to get out of bed for a whole week. The kind of loss that at one point hurt so much that I thought I would physically splinter in half.

I am still bereft. I will never not be bereft over this loss, and what the shadow took from me, this shadow I never asked for or wanted, but that is still mine to carry.

Many people carry around shadows like mine, or similar to mine. For some people, it is a chronic illness. For some, it’s addiction—theirs or of a loved one. For some, a disease, theirs or within their family. Poverty. Racism. Inequality. Complex childhood trauma. Toxic relationships. There are so many shadows that plague people.

My mom used to say, Every person has their cross to bear. But I never saw my shadow as a cross. Bearing a cross is visible—and people can respond to it accordingly. Help you carry it a chunk of a road, or at least offer their understanding when you’re not able to perform in an expected way. Shadow is invisible—or perhaps people would see it if they ever paid attention, but how many people will look at you so closely, and pay attention to the shade cast under your feet?

Over the course of my life, I have done everything, everything I could think of, to try to rid myself of my shadow. I ignored it. Bargained with it. Tried to appease it. Tried hard to flood it with light in order for it to disappear. It didn’t. And now that I’ve turned forty-one, I’m beginning to realize that the optimistic hope of my youth that some day it will go away, is just an illusion. Has always been an illusion.

I live my life above and around my shadow. Often underneath it, too. This year, when the shadow dealt me that heartbreaking blow, I worked through my invisible grief, getting up every day to edit client pages, and respond to emails, and get on Zoom calls, and edit my book, and write Substacks, and make healthy lunch for my kids, and read books, and post on IG about them, and host my book club meetings. Maybe you were one of the people on those calls, or the person on the other side of Whatsapp message threads, and you didn’t know that briefly before getting on that call I had sat on my bathroom floor, not knowing if I would be able to gather myself and get up. But I always did get up, splash water over my reddened face, because honestly, I don’t have the luxury not to. Little would’ve been left of my life had I postponed it every time the shadow struck.

But I am here to tell you, it is hard work.

It is fucking hard work to have to carry it around. I’m tired. I wish I could lay it to rest, I had hoped that one day this would happen, but this is not possible, and I have to accept that.

My IRL friends often resent me for not being responsive to messages, or eager to invite them to meet up. I struggle with small talk. I struggle with the mundane communications that seem to come so easily to everyone else. I am careful where I put my energy, because so much of my energy is drained by the shadow, and this sometimes means I don’t have any to give freely.

I could dishonestly finish this post on a positive note. Say that everything is going to be okay—which it is. Despite the shadow, I try to keep an optimistic outlook and manifest the best possible outcomes for myself and those I love. And please don’t shower me with worried comments, or compassionate notes. This is not new to me, this is something I have been dealing with my whole life, I can hold my own in this fight, I don’t need sympathy or pity. This is not the point of this post. If this post has a point at all, other than my hope that other Shadowed People will feel seen and heard by reading it, then it is to remind people that we don’t know. We don’t know what the other person is carrying around. We judge people when their behaviors don’t match what we think they should be, but we seldomly really, fully know what drives them. Don’t assume you know. There are so many people carrying shadows that you don’t see. Be kind, whenever you can.

Much love, and Happy New Year. May it be full of light.

My novel, SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA is now available for pre-order. Pre-orders are crucial for authors: they signal to their publisher, booksellers, and librarians that this is a book worth paying attention to. It would mean the world to me if you pre-ordered, or shared news about my book with someone who might like it. You can also add it on Goodreads on your to-read shelf.

Links for pre-order: Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, Books-A-Million, Amazon.

On Nov 29th 2023, at 9:39 p.m., as my children were getting ready for bed, and my husband was puttering around the kitchen, I sat on the couch, done with work and chores for the day, and I refreshed my email—a nervous tick I’d adopted (and had been giving in to at least hourly) since I’d started querying.

And in my inbox, appeared an email. It said:

“Hi Lidija — To put it simply, I love your novel. Can we set up a time to talk?”

The sender was no other than my now agent, Abby Walters from Creative Artists Agency (CAA).

I’d started querying two weeks beforehand (not counting one exclusive referral that had been out a month before that) and Abby was the first agent I’d queried after that referal hadn’t panned out. Her wishlist and a list of previous projects had sounded like a perfect fit for Slanting Towards the Sea, though I didn’t dare dream she would actually like it.

But I’d received her full request only days after I’d submitted my cold query. I’d also received several other full requests from other agents after that, but I knew that reading fulls could take up to six months, so I didn’t expect anything to happen for a long, long time yet (which didn’t stop me from refreshing my inbox in embarrassing intervals).

Upon reading her words, my vision blurred, static crackling in my ears—the surge of adrenaline was so overpowering it rendered my entire body useless. I’d queried my first novel for almost a year, and the furthest I’d gotten were a dozen of full requests that either turned to rejections or ghosting. I never allowed myself to really believe I’d get further along with this new novel. To curb the potential sting of rejection, I’d convinced myself that it didn’t matter if I didn’t get an agent with this book either. I would just continue writing until I got one, because writing is what I love to do, and that’s what matters.

And yet now, these words stared at me. A brilliant agent from a top literary agency loved my novel.

Had I read that right? In my frenzied panic, I tried to read her words again, searching for a ‘but’ somewhere in the two sparse lines she’d sent—because until now there had always been a ‘but.’ As in, but I didn’t connect with the protagonist; or but I don’t have the vision for it; or but I don’t know where to place it, or, but I didn’t love it enough to be its best champion… or something else to that effect. And as I searched for the but in Abby’s email, the words kept eluding me, scattering over the screen like cockroaches in sudden light.

I rolled off the couch onto all fours, fighting to breathe. My husband looked at me from across our open plan kitchen.

“The… the… The call,” I barely managed.

“What call?” he said. “Are you okay?”

“No, no—” Meaning, he got it wrong; but he took it to mean that no, I wasn’t okay. I certainly looked like I wasn’t; I was clutching my chest as if I were having a heart attack. He rushed over.

“The call. The call!” I kept repeating, hoping he’d make the connection. We’d talked about querying all the time, he knew about “The Call,” at least in theory. But I guess it hadn’t occurred to him that it could happen, or happen this fast, any more than it had occurred to me. I tried to explain what was going on but I couldn’t steady myself enough to utter anything coherent.

Because, I was there, but not really there. The future was unfurling before my eyes in a dizzying slideshow I could barely keep up with: this could mean, agented. This could mean, submission to Big Five. This could mean, book deal. This could mean, published author. And it all starts with — “The call! The call!” I kept saying.

“Should I call someone?” my husband tried. “The ambulance? Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

At this, I started laughing.

“No, no ambulance. It’s agent! Agent call,” I said.

And these words marked an end of an era.

Today marks a full year since that evening, and even though my husband and I still laugh about it sometimes, all I can say, with some time and distance, is that my reaction wasn’t exaggerated at all. Because over the course of the last year, my life changed in ways I never could’ve imagined.

On the outside, my life seamingly stayed the same. I grocery-shop at the same stand at the farmer’s market, make lunch for my family every day. I tutor my younger daughter in math when she needs it (which, if you know me, you’re cracking up, because I’ve always sucked at math); and help my older daughter navigate her tweens. I still coach my clients, and run my book club and go for coffee every morning with my husband.

Apart from my husband and daughters, there are very few people here in Croatia who are interested to hear about my writing journey. Not even the closest friends or family have preordered a copy of my book or asked to see the cover. I got a few pats on the back from acquaintances who’d seen the announcement on social media, but mostly, if someone refers to my writing, they do it in the way that subtly undermines its significance. What did you write, the new “Fifty Shades of Gray?” they’ll ask. Once, when I wanted to show a friend my cover, she raised her hand, as if in defence, and said she was fine not seeing it. Once, a family member sent me a link to a self-published Croatian author writing in English, saying, “Here’s someone doing the same thing you are.”

The most engagement I’d ever gotten from my Croatian friends and family was after I wrote the peacock article, a self-deprecating piece in which I shared how I mistakenly had a character roast a peacock in my novel, instead of a rooster. I got a smattering of LOLs and laughing emojis, a mocking about how I’d made the Croatians look barbaric; and I got a distinct sense some of them were laughing at me, not with me.

Painful as it is not being recognized or appreciated within my own country and community, this was not wholly unexpected. It’s very on-par with Croatian mentality.

But what it also means is that it’s generally quite easy, in my everyday life, to go on as I always have. To only be the person working from home on whatever laptop thing I’m doing, in addition to being a mom, and a wife, and not much else. Sometimes, if I’d been offline for long enough, even I forget that I have a book coming out on a different continent, and with a publisher as prestigious as Simon & Schuster.

But then I open my laptop, and a whole different life, a whole different version of myself emerges. I’ll get an email from my production manager at Simon & Schuster, or my fabulous editor, or my rock-star agent, or the incredible fellow authors whom I’d once known only by their novels, or the many amazing writing friends, and I’ll be reminded that this is really happening.

There is a whole team working relentlessly to bring my novel to the readers in the best way possible. A whole team, in other words, of people who believe in me and my novel.

That email started a cascade of events—multiple agent offers, a pre-empt that turned into an auction, rounds and rounds of edits, a gorgeous cover and interior book design; and most recently, physical ARCs of my novel have landed in the S&S office.

Somewhere, half a world away, my novel is now a real-life physical thing.

It’s been a whirlwind.

But the biggest changes I’ve experienced are internal. Years of hard work finally paying of. Trusting my writing more and believing in my talent. Writing and publishing friendships. An imposter syndrome shrinking more every time it dares to appear. An emerging identity—that of an author. An opportunity to lead a creative life.

This dream I’ve had all my life, that had been so unimaginable that for the larger part of my life I didn’t even bother to pursue it, is coming true.

In July of 2025, I will officially be a published author in the US.

My book will be on the bookshelves of American bookstores.

And it all started with an email.

“To put it simply—I love your novel.”

Dear reader, I hope you will love it too.

SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA is now available for pre-order. Pre-orders are crucial for authors: they signal to their publisher, booksellers, and librarians that this is a book worth paying attention to. It would mean the world to me if you pre-ordered, or shared news about my book with someone who might like it. You can also add it on Goodreads on your to-read shelf.

Links for pre-order: Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, Books-A-Million, Amazon.

Step One: Wish Setting

On January 1st 2023, my husband and I went swimming. It was a cold but beautiful day, sunny, with only a few clouds in the sky. The sea was frigid, at least by our standards (spoiled Croatians that we are): it was below 14 degrees Celsius. Needless to say, it took me half an hour to get in. I waded in slowly, the sea biting hard on every centimeter of my skin that I dared to submerge.

My husband took a photo of me from the shore with his phone. On it, I’m turned with my back to him, gazing down at the sea, looking thoughtful and pensive (in reality, I’m just sucking in my breath for how cold it is).

But as soon as he showed me the photo, I thought, “Well, my cover should be somewhere along these lines.” Obviously, not with me on it. But a woman, gazing down towards the sea, looking melancholy and nostalgic, just felt very well suited for the book.

My book was in the drafting stages back then. I had written around 100-150 pages, and there was still so much to do, so much to figure out. I had no idea if I’ll even manage to finish the book, let alone if it will go anywhere. But what I did know, viscerally, was the underlying emotion of the book, and the photo my husband took conveyed that emotion to a T.

Because it was New Year’s Day, when I, as most other people, do my reckoning, I did some thinking and goal-setting (which can sooner be considered wish-setting). What did I want this year—and perhaps even the next few years to look like?

I had recently seen a snippet of an interview with Oprah, when the interviewer asked her what was, in her opinion, the thing holding people back the most from reaching their goals and manifesting the life they want? And she said, (paraphrasing here): “Not knowing exactly what they want.”

I didn’t want to be vague about what I wanted, so I thought hard on the outcomes I wanted. I wanted to write a good book. I wanted to sign with the kind of agent who would be a great and supportive partner. I wanted to place my book with a good publisher. I wanted to become an author. I wanted (and still want) to touch readers with my words.

I’m not new to the concept of manifesting. Once, I had written down, three months before my due date and in the deepest throes of pre-natal anxiety, that my daughter would be born on a Wednesday of her 39th gestation week (because my ob-gyn worked Wednesdays in the hospital and I wanted her to be there with me); and sure enough, my water broke at 1 a.m. that Wednesday. Once, while I was still a Croatian attorney, I kept repeating I wanted to read books for a living, and sure enough, a few years later this is my day job.

Feeling the excitement of something that hasn’t yet happened before it actually happens is a crucial step to getting what you want. Crafting small tokens that help you feel this excitement—is another.

I’m not sure how any of this works, except that it does. Where you place your focus, your energy goes, and somehow (not necessarily the way you’ve predicted or planned, or even foreseen), the desired results materialize. “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” — long ago said the Bible.

So I took the photo my husband took of me, and in Canva, I turned it into a mock cover of my book. I put the title on, as well as my name as the author. The desired outcome.

Meaning, I asked.

Of course, I didn’t show this to anyone, not even my husband — it’s totally cringe, I even feel cringey writing about it now. But when I did that, my book felt more real to me. I could actually imagine the future that hadn’t yet happened. I could feel the excitement of it, as if it had already occurred.

Step Two: Signs Along the Way

In January 2024 (a whole year after that wish-setting day) I had already signed with my dream agent, and we were about to go out on submission with my book, when a sponsored post popped up on my Instagram.

It was a painting of a dark-haired woman, gazing down towards the sea.

As soon as I saw it, I thought, “Here’s my cover.”

I don’t consider myself a big visual art connoisseur; I don’t follow any artists on IG, apart from Jessica Miller, the brilliant artist behind Ann Napolitano’s Hello Beautiful.

There was no reason for the algorhythm to show me this post—except that it did. And because I had made that mock cover of my book, the painting immediately resonated.

(Which really brings me back to what Oprah said. Things can only resonate if there is something for them to resonate with. This was, apparently, the whole purpose of that mock cover I had made one year earlier).

I looked up the artist. Her name, Hana Tischler, sounded international, and the caption said she was based in Lisbon. But when I opened her profile, my whole body froze again. She was a Croatian living in Lisbon.

Croatian, just like me. Establishing her artistic career outside Croatia, just like me.

Step Three: Knock…

I took a screenshot of the painting from the artist’s video and made another mock cover in Canva. This too felt a bit cringey: authors generally don’t have a say about their covers, especially before they go on submission. Sharing this cover with my agent could’ve made me look like someone incooperative, someone who sees her book in a too-fixed way. Someone who wouldn’t be flexible and willing to compromise with the publisher.

But all I can say is, the woman on the cover IS Ivona, my protagonist. The way she looks, the emotional state she is in… It was as if Hana had known who Ivona was when she painted her.

I took a chance and sent the mock cover to my agent.

And luckily, my agent agreed: it was the perfect cover.

Normally, agents never include a mock-up cover made by an author (for all the reasons stated above), with a submission. But the image conveyed the sense of place and the underlying emotion of the book so well, my agent took this chance. And so my mock-up cover went on sub alongside the manuscript.

Step Four: … And You Shall Receive

Fast forward to June 2024, when my editor said, “We’re starting to work on the cover, do you have any preferences?”

Do I ever?

I sent her the mock cover again.

I didn’t expect them to use the actual painting. I sold the rights to my manuscript, but it is the publisher who turns that manuscript into an actual product. It is them who have the marketing, publicity, and sales team that understand the readership and their preferences. It is them who have the art department that knows how to make a cover that will reach its target audience. The visual representation of the book is vital to the sales. I should know—I’d bought books with US covers that I would’ve never bought with their UK covers, and vice versa. I understood that my wishes were one thing, and the reality of bookselling is something else entirely.

When I sent that mock cover in, the most I expected was that the image convey the essence of what I wanted the cover to look like.

One month later, I woke up to a mail from my editor, with a PDF of potential cover designs.

When I opened the document, there were five versions of the cover inside.

On all of them, the same painting, only different fonts and letter placements.

“The art department LOVED the cover you provided,” my editor said.

Step Five: Synchronicities…

I was floored. To say I didn’t expect to actually see Hana’s painting on my book cover is an understatement. But now, there was an actual possibility that this painting, this incredible, gorgeous painting, will be the cover of my book! IF the painter agrees to approve its use.

Fear struck, and I tried so hard not to focus on the possibility that I’ve come so far, only to hear that the artist isn’t willing to licence the rights.

Thankfully, within days, an email from my editor landed in my inbox. “The artist approved.”

We had the cover.

I should add here that my editor’s name is also Hana.

Step Six: … And More Synchronicities

Finally, I could reach out to Hana the painter myself.

I wrote to her, introduced myself, thanked her for her dazzling talent and for approving the rights. It was odd, after all this time of communicating everything about this painting in English, to write this note in Croatian.

We got in touch. She asked me where I lived. I told her I was in Zadar, Croatia. And, funnily enough, she was home in Croatia for the summer, and on one of Zadar’s islands, of all the places!

We agreed to meet.

Step Seven: Good Things Never Come In Ones

On August 17th, I met Hana in my hometown. She is as her pictures and videos show her: beautiful, interesting, brilliant. I couldn’t love her more. We talked like old friends — like we had always known each other, and were simply catching up after not seeing each other for a while. So much of our lives has been the same, not least the struggle to make it in any reasonable way in Croatia; to have a place to channel our talents, which ultimately made us both seek that professional, artistic recognition outside our homeland.

Within that hour that we had at our disposal, more synchronicities arose than I could put into words. My older daughter and Hana are born on the same date. Both Hana’s son and I have birthdays within 15 days of that date. My older daughter and Hana’s son were born in the same year, within six days of each other. Hana’s son has the same name as the son of the protagonist in my new book—so rare a Croatian name that I had never met a person with this name before.

Step Eight: When Two Manifestations Meet

Hana told me how this story unraveled on her end. On a very hot summer day, she received an email from someone at Simon&Schuster, a US publisher she had never heard of, inquiring about licencing rights to this one painting she had posted on Instagram a year and a half earlier.

She thought it was spam.

She almost deleted the message, but then googled the publisher, and saw that it was legit, and the name of the person sending her this email checked out. And then she got my message, and the synchronicity of us being within a hundred miles of each other told her that this was more than a coincidence.

The real gain here isn’t the cover (for me) and more exposure (for Hana). It is this newfound friendship. It is these two Croatian women meeting against all odds to feed and support each other’s art.

Back in January of 2023, when I sat down to wish-set, I never could’ve imagined an outcome this lofty. Like Hana had done with this painting, on that day I had only sketched this new reality in with broad brushstrokes. But OMG the colors with which the Universe, God, Whoever-It-Is-Up-There, colored it in!

SLANTING TOWARDS THE SEA is now available for pre-order. Pre-orders are so important for the authors: they signal to their publisher, booksellers, and librarians that this is a book worth paying attention to. It would mean the world to me if you pre-ordered, or shared news about my book with someone who might like it. You can also add it on Goodreads on your to-read shelf.

Links for pre-order: Barnes & Noble, Bookshop, Books-A-Million, Amazon

Last weekend, my family and I drove to the countryside for a little road trip (one of the perks of living in a country as small yet as geographically diverse as Croatia, is that it takes only an hour drive to get from our coastal region to the mountainous region, with its completely different climate, plant and wildlife. You drive through a 5,600 meter tunnel that winds through the gut of the Velebit mountain, et voila! You’re in a different areal altogether).

And as we were driving through some village there, I saw a coop.

And in it a rooster.

A beautiful one, with a proud red comb and beautiful autumn-colored feathers.

“Pivac,” I thought, the Croatian word for a rooster.

Its peers tend to end up on our Sunday lunch table on special occassions, like Christmases, birthdays, and anniversaries. My mother makes a mean roast, like you wouldn’t believe: the skin crisp and savory, the meat supple and succulent. It’s my favorite dish.

In fact, I love it so much that I even mention it in my novel, Slanting Towards the Sea, coming out next summer from Simon & Schuster. In one of the scenes, the protagonist’s mother makes a roast, and also a soup, the kind that speaks a thousand languages, as we Croatians would say.

Pivac (pee-vahts), I thought as we drove on, parsing out each syllable. Or the other word for it, pijetao (pee-yeh-tah-oh). How proud it looked with its red crest and its auburn hackles.

And then, because nowadays I think in English more often than in my native tongue, the English word came to me. Rooster.

I mulled the word over. Rooster, rooster, rooster.

It hit me, as if the car had hit the wall.

I broke out in cold sweat.

I couldn’t breathe as I took my phone out and logged onto my Drive, where I have the latest version of my manuscript.

And sure enough, there it was. The sentence that felt like a death sentence—death by shame.

“She had outdone herself as she always did: roasted a peacock with potatoes and homemade mlinci, a type of baked dough she briefly cooked and then swirled in the gravy. Salad, of course, and steamed broccoli. And peacock soup with semolina gnocchi—the kind of soup that lifted you from the dead.”

I turned to my husband, who was driving obliviously. “The mother in my manuscript roasted a peacock for lunch. A peacock!” I said, exasperated. “And now my writing partner, all my beta readers, my entire team at CAA, and half of Simon & Schuster all think Croatians roast peacocks for lunch!”

I imagined an actual peacock, its beautiful blue-green feathers, its delicate navy crown, the plummage so azzure you could get lost in it, like on high seas—and I was mortified. Who in their right mind would roast a peacock?!

“Are you sure?” My husband asked, and when I confirmed, he started laughing so hard, I almost made him pull over.

“Give yourself some grace, it’s an honest mistake,” he said. “Pea-cock. Pee-vaths.” And then he said, in a Donald Trump debate voice, “They’re eating the peacocks, the people that live there.”

And I couldn’t help but laugh along.

By this point I read the book several hundred times. Some of those, aloud. And never once did this word jump out at me. And all the other people who read it must have just assumed that this is yet another one of Croatian quirks—there’s plenty of those in the book.

I started obsessing over how many more mistakes I’d made that I’ve glossed over just as I’ve glossed over that roasted peacock.

Croatian society is deeply sardonic. You will often see a group of men sitting idly by the side of the road, or on a piazza, commenting on the one person actually doing something—trimming the trees, fertilizing the soil, fixing a car—and being very vocal about all the ways this person is doing it wrong, while never bothering to do anything themselves, to show how it’s done by example.

Had my manuscript been translated into Croatian, I’m sure I would’ve never seen the end of mockery.

Shame is a weird emotion. It makes you want to dig a hole and bury yourself in it. It makes you wish that you’d never made any effort at all. For a moment, I almost succumbed to it, wondering if by writing a novel in my second language, a language of a country I never even visited, I bit off more than I could chew.

We continued driving back home, leaving the rooster and its coop behind. We went through that long tunnel that winds through the womb of the mountain, the tunnel that starts in one region, but delivers you into another world entirely. It felt almost cathartic when the light appeared at the end of it.

Because light always appears, if you keep going long enough.

It was a good reminder.

I would much rather be the person doing something, than the person commenting on the person doing something, while sitting their own life out. I would much rather put myself out there, even if it means making some mistakes along the way, than succumb to the fear of mockery and remain stagnant and small.

And with all my heart, I wish the same for you, because how bland and colorless this world would be if we didn’t allow ourselves to make mistakes in order to shine.

Disclaimer: No peacocks were hurt during, before, or after writing this article –– or my novel, Slanting Towards the Sea. Sadly, the same can’t be said for some unfortunate roosters.

*To TL;DR through this post, scroll down to the subtitles for the scoop!

When I finished the first draft of Slanting Towards the Sea in July ‘23, it was… well, a workable mess.

My novel has two timelines which weren’t balanced at that point — there was no cadence (rhythm) between the past and present storyline (I needed to hone and trim both, and then decide how to braid them together, and then also make sure the transitions between the two work, and be careful that the back-and-forth falls into a nice pattern and a pace that’s well-balanced…). The ending of the novel was totally wrong — I knew this wasn’t how I wanted the book to end, but I didn’t have any idea how to frame the type of ending that I actually wanted (let alone what happens in it). The voice was inconsistent in places too (let’s just say you could see I was reading Elizabeth Strout while I was writing some paragraphs, and Barbara Kingsolver as I was writing others 😅).

Like I said, a mess.

But it was the beginning of July, and I had a few agent calls scheduled for the end of that month, as I’ve purchased a ticket to Muse & the Marketplace conference. It was also July — in the sense that the kids were not in school, and that it’s the month I always run my Novel With Meaning Program, so my work schedule was packed. July also means the height of summer in Croatia, when all you want to do is swim, swim, swim and stroll around in the evenings with ice-cream or corn on the cob or drinking cold beer on one of the summer terraces. Meaning, less-than-ideal working conditions.

My family and I were at my mom’s summer house, and this made the work even harder, because—small house and five people to avoid 😏.

But then something happened that I could, later on, only refer to as a visit from the muse.

Despite less than perfect conditions, I managed to revise the first 2/3 of the MS before July was out—into, basically, the very version that got me both an agent and a publisher a few months later. At the beginning of August, I also realized what the ending should be, and by September, the book was, narratively-speaking, done. In the next five weeks, I gave it a couple of more passess for word-choice, cadence, style and grammar, before querying in mid-October, but really, the massive job of straightening out that mess of that first draft was done in less than two months.

It was a major overwrite: a complete overhaul of 2/3 of the MS, and a complete rewrite of the last 1/3. All within 1,5 month, and with limited writing time.

If you’ve followed my journey, you know what happened next. The book got 9 full requests out of 24 queries; 3 offers of representation—all three agents agreeing that the novel was submission ready; the book sold in an auction within one month of being out on sub.

So when my editor said she wanted to do three passes before August this year (meaning, in a period of 4 months), I thought—gosh, I really could use another visit from that muse. Never in my life have I revised the MS that fast and that well (hence—the muse theory). Revisions had always been a gruesome, long-lasting process for me, often with questionable outcome (ie. dubious improvement).

But as I thought more about it, I started discerning patterns in what I had done the previous summer, until it became crystal clear—there was never a muse at all. Just work, and what turned out to be a pretty clear-cut strategy that I could rinse-and-repeat whenever I wanted to.

The Three-Document Revision Strategy

Here is a step-by-step account of what I did:

1. I HAD CLARITY ON WHAT NEEDED TO BE DONE

   My MS was a mess, but I understood what needed to be done to shape it up. Granted, I’m a book coach, so I can turn that editorial part of my brain on easier than most other writers. I knew my storylines (past and present) weren’t balanced, transitions between them were off; I knew that the ending was all wrong. And I didn’t know how exactly to end my book, but I knew what type of ending I wanted it to have, how I wanted my reader to feel when they finished reading.

   This, I understand, is the hardest step. But even if you’re not a book coach, there are ways of getting clearer on what needs to be done. Read your book as if it were someone else’s and you were reading it for fun: see where you lost interest as a reader, ask yourself why, and what it needs instead. Be open to noticing inconsistencies or issues. You can also use beta-readers, critique partners, or hire a developmental editor. The point is, go into this revision knowing what needs to be done.

2. NEW DOCUMENT + A PACT THAT ONLY THE GOOD STUFF GOES IN

   With my previous book, when I went into revision, I always made a copy of the draft I had just finished, and then tried to do edits within that new document. But doing substantial edits in a 350-page document is hard and unwieldy. Moreover, that unwieldiness primes your brain to keep as much of the material you already have, because the sheer length and size of the document makes the changes feel unmanageable.

   This time though, I didn’t edit the Draft 1 document. I opened a new document and made a pact with myself. ONLY THE STUFF THAT REALLY WORKS GOES INTO THE NEW DOCUMENT. No exceptions. It only goes in if it freaking shines.

   Sometimes, this meant I could copy an entire chapter, and make small adjustments inside (adjustments no bigger than word choices and sentence-level alignment; tweaks basically). But more often than not, it meant taking only bits and pieces of the material that worked in the first draft, and writing the rest out anew. But because of the step 1 (knowing what needed to be done) the rewrite felt manageable—and also, because new material was being produced, it even felt creatively exciting (unlike the drag that revision often feels like).

3. KEEP A SCRAP DOCUMENT FOR SCENE DEVELOPMENT

   The trickiest scenes were the ones where I had a lot to save while also having to rewrite or restructure them significantly. Instead of copying the entire chapter from the original First Draft document into the new (clean) Draft 2 document, I had a ‘scrap document’ handy. In it, I could play with the scene in a million different ways, trying stuff out, copying it so that I had multiple versions saved in case I needed to back up. Only when I was absolutely satisfied with it, would I copy it in the clean Draft 2 document—because, again, the hard rule was ONLY THE STUFF THAT REALLY WORKS GOES INTO THE NEW DOCUMENT.

Why this approach works:

1. A shift in your allegiance: instead of being loyal to the original draft (we writers are oh-so-protective of our sentences!), you shift your allegiance to the story. You stop trying to bend backwards to try to save that pretty wording you have in that one paragraph, but that’s, quite honestly, messing up your character arc.

2. Keeping the document open-ended makes the edits more manageable. For example, you copy one scene that works from your Draft 1 and then you realize that it needs an intermittent scene before you can move on. The open-endedness of your document allows you to think only about what your story needs now, and not about how you will adjust what you have later on to fit in with that new addition.

3. You hold yourself to a higher writing standard. By accepting the hierarchy between the documents (Draft 2 being above Draft 1, in that not all things in Draft 1 make the cut for Draft 2), you hold your Draft 2 to a higher standard, and your writing is better for it.

4. You can monitor your process more easily. You’re 15 pages in? That’s great, because they are 15 very clean pages that made the cut.

5. The scrap document allows you to play until you get it right, without compromising the original document, or making a mess out of new one.

I ended up doing the same with my first round of revision with Simon & Schuster, and it turned out to be a repeatable process. Revision is never easy—there were times, especially mid-way through, when I wanted to pull all my hair out. But I can honestly say that this approach is what saved my sanity in those moments. Go easy. Chapter by chapter. Only what needs to go in, goes in, and only when it shines. And the best part? No muse needed at all!

My Novel With Meaning Program is open for enrollment. Only two seats left, so hurry to save your spot! Learn more about the program here.

On my journey toward becoming an author and book coach, I obssesively studied a myriad of storytelling/plotting techniques and frameworks: Story Genius and Wired for Story by Lisa Cron; Save the Cat Writes a Novel by Jessica Brody; Blueprint for a Book by Jennie Nash; and Story Grid by Sean Coyne, to name a few. But what most of these frameworks had in common was that they were more suitable for genre fiction than for literary fiction. This makes sense—the best way to show how a story works is to distill it into its basics, into a formula, just like physicists do with gravity or velocity.

But being drawn as I was to writing and reading literary fiction, I could see that the books I loved didn’t fit neatly (if at all) into these patterns. They didn’t have the predictable or expected plot developments—and some didn’t have much of a plot at all; they often didn’t have a distinct character arc; and instead of making one significant, overarching point, they were usually making small but impactful insights throughout the narrative, leaving the point open-ended and multi-faceted.

So how do you plot and set up a project that defies genre expectations by definition?

Through discussions about Literary and Upmarket Fiction in my Writers’ Book Club and detailed research, I started seeing exactly what it was that made literary different from commercial (genre) fiction (hint: it isn’t the quality of writing, as it’s often said, though quality writing on sentence level is one of the requirements)—and I started discerning patterns in plot development, character arcs, etc., that are typical for literary fiction—even though it bends and defies expectations.

I gathered all those insights and built them into my Novel With Meaning Program. The program launched in 2022 with a lot of success, and this is the third time I’m running it.

Novel With Meaning program is geared toward helping writers of Women’s Fiction across the spectrum — from commercial over upmarket to literary — set up the foundation of their story.

In this program, you will dive deep into:

• understanding what story is (in any genre)

• what the reader expects from a story, and how that translates into structure

• what you are really trying to say with this story, why that matters to you, and how that informs the story, its characters, its structure, and its outline

• how to go about finding your angle and hook—the one thing that makes your story distinct from all the similar stories out there (because, let’s face it, all stories have already been told; it is the new and fresh angle that makes any story stand out from what’s already been done)

• what the third rail (or clothesline) is and why it matters, and how to find it in your own novel (and make it as taut as it can be)

• what the most important storytelling rule is (spoiler alert: it’s keeping the reader immersed in the story), and how to calibrate your characters’ emotionality in order for the reader to fully believe they’re real, so that they stay immersed

• what an emotional synopsis is, how to write one, and why it matters…

… all with the final goal of outlining a story that really works.

Novel With Meaning Program doesn’t only help you outline your story—it teaches you how to think about storytelling. It gives you a set of tools that you will be using over and over again as you write this novel, but also as you set out to write your future novels.

The program includes:

• 5 video lessons, with step-by-step guidance on how to plan and outline your story;

• Worksheets that accompany each lesson so you can workshop your material in style;

• Access to a group setting of no more than 6 writers where you’ll post your homework for feedback from your peers, and give feedback on their homework;

• Written feedback from your instructor after each Module.

• A group live-coaching session after each Module where we’ll discuss everyone’s homework;

• Written feedback on your entire workbook as the course ends.

• A BONUS GIFT: a beautiful PDF—Story Graph for your story!

You can read more about the program (including what the program covers, the course schedule, the price, and what the previous participants said) here, and you can apply for the program here. 

The are only six seats available so hurry up and claim your spot!