A year after my first book came out, a then-friend said to me, over dinner at an Italian restaurant on a cold winter night: "Your book was a failure." My friend didn't say it harshly--though perhaps it's no surprise that we are not friends anymore. He said it matter-of-factly, as in, the things you hoped for when your book came out, like selling hundreds of thousands of copies, or establishing yourself as a cultural critic with a seat at the National Important People Conversation Table, didn't happen. He was right. My book didn't even sell through its modest first print run, and I never earned a cent beyond my advance. I appeared on national television and NPR but my message never caught anybody's attention beyond those book-related interviews. I only got to call myself a "bestselling author" because when I went to LA on "tour" (the tour I paid for myself), I sold a lot of copies at independent bookstores the week I was there, and the LA Times weighs local indie sales heavily on its weekly bestseller list. (For exactly one week, I was 15th out of 15!) Having this reality stated so bluntly stung me deeply. I remember fighting hard to swallow back the humiliation and sadness it triggered. Moments later, however, I was filled with a strong, clear feeling.

No.

My book was not a failure. For one, I was enormously proud of it, not just of the book but of myself for finishing it. For another, while I had not turned into an overnight punditry sensation, I had crossed a meaningful threshold professionally. As a published author, I now had a platform to build on for the next book, and the credibility to teach writing to others--not to mention to found She Writes. Perhaps most important, I had reached an audience, if not in the numbers I had hoped. Women had written to me from all over the country to tell me what my book meant to them, and readers cared about it enough to engage in lively debates about it on blogs and on my Amazon book page. I had also learned, from talking with many other published writers, that while all writers want their books to sell, almost no writers sell enough books to make a living.  

I wrote a book I'm proud of, I thought. And that means my book was a success. That moment of certainty was the moment I transitioned from being a first-time author with a head full of fantasies to being a more seasoned writer, with a deeper understanding of herself, why she wrote, and what she could expect from it. 

Last Friday, at lunch with twelve New York-based She Writes Press authors (see gorgeous photo above), I listened to their publishing journeys and found myself reflecting back on that pivotal moment for me. Each woman at the table considered her publication with SWP a success, but I believe this was because each of them had wisely defined success on her own terms. Several of the experts told me that having a book out had allowed them to speak, teach and proselytize for the causes they cared about in ways that had been transformative. Several of the memoirists said that the process of working with seasoned editors to convert their life stories from memory into narrative, and then publishing those stories to be read by those who needed to hear them--whether that was hundreds of people or thousands--was a healing gift and a life-changing accomplishment. Some of our more experienced authors, with agents and previous books at major publishing houses, shared that publishing with SWP had meant that a book the traditional houses rejected had had a chance at a life in the marketplace, and that their hard work in promoting it could result in a profit (if a modest one). From several of the novelists, I heard stories of projects years in the making, of books that had to come out of them no matter what, and of how proud they were now that they had. Several of the women had won awards; one of them had just had her book optioned for TV. None of them had sold hundreds of thousands of copies or become world-famous. (At least not yet!) All of them had defined success differently from that. The common thread? They were proud of their books, and happy with the SWP team that had helped to produce them well.

With my first novel coming out this spring, nine years after the publication of my first book, I have had plenty of occasion to ask myself how I will define success this time around. I have some ideas: enough sales to recoup my investment in publishing it, positive reviews (if I can get them), broader attention for She Writes Press. But then I remember. I wrote a novel, something I've never done before. I revised it and revised it, first on my own and then with the help of talented SWP editors, until I had a manuscript I felt completely, utterly proud of. I gave that manuscript to writers I respect, and they told me it was good. I got to be part of choosing its cover and had input into the look and feel of its beautiful printed pages. I wrote a novel! And when the box of galleys arrived at my apartment two weeks ago, I took out a copy and held it in my hands.

And then I know. This book can't be a failure. Because in the ways that matter most--and in the only ways I can truly control--it's a success already.