On Failure

Last weekend my husband and I went to an Asian-fusion potluck hosted by some members of our church. I was on dessert duty, and decided to make a basque matcha cheesecake (recipe from Modern Asian Baking at Home). Unfortunately, upon cutting into the cheesecake, it was apparent that it hadn’t set, which honestly peeved me off. I’d done everything right, followed instructions to a tee, the whole thing looked great— and it didn’t set?!?! Ugh. 

I almost cried right then and there, which would have been the second time a cheesecake reduced me to tears. Coincidentally, I’ve only made cheesecake twice in my life. Make of that what you will. 

All that to say, I’m not great at taking failure, which has made the first 6 months of 2023 a particularly discouraging season. 

It started in February, when the first book I illustrated came out. It wasn’t necessarily my “style” but I was so grateful for the opportunity to get my foot in the door of a tough industry and thankful that someone at the publishing house saw potential in my work. It was taking me a while to get my illustrator’s copy, so in the meantime, I relied on feedback from my mother after she received her order. When she called after her book was delivered, it wasn’t great news.

“Your name’s not anywhere in the book.”

“What?”

“I’ll send you pictures of all the accreditation pages, but I can’t find your name anywhere.”

Sure enough, my name was nowhere to be found. Despite emails to my AD, I never received my own copy, so I scoured the pages of the one my parents bought and confirmed that my illustrations were uncredited. Looking back and rereading my contract, I can cede that it never explicitly said I was to be credited, but in all fairness, I didn’t think that was something I needed to state. Additionally, I found that my favorite illustration had been replaced with something I hadn’t done. While this is well within the right of the publisher, I’m disappointed that I wasn’t notified or given the option to draw a replacement since it seems the original didn’t work.

I don’t say any of this to bash the publisher. Putting a book together is hard work and inevitably, things slip through the cracks– I just wish it wasn’t me. I’m inexperienced and less knowledgeable than I would like in regards to the industry. I should have asked that accreditation be confirmed in the contract, as well as legally ensuring I would have first pass to make changes later on in the process after my initial period of work was finished. The bulk of the failure is on my part, which honestly makes the whole situation feel worse. 

Just a few weeks later, I received a rejection for a scholarship to attend a publishing workshop, and the week after that, rejections for an illustration workshop and a residency. These were all “shoot for the moon” type applications that received hundreds, if not thousands, of entrants, but rejection is rejection and regardless of the competition, it still stung. All of this in a short period of time culminated in some tears, which spiraled into more tears because I tend to feel bad about crying and hurting over things that seem so small in the grand scheme of things. Glaciers are melting, people are dying, and I’m sad because some anonymous group of critics didn’t like my work enough? Ugh.

But that sort of rationalization is (surprise!) incredibly unhelpful. It only serves to make me feel worse about myself. I struggle a lot with my desire to create full time— I don’t see my work as being valuable enough to the world to justify doing it. I wonder how I could feel called to this when there are so many other vocations out there that I perceive as doing more important work?

Yet, I don’t look at other creatives and think that. I see all the posts from illustrators I admire and think “how beautiful!” I remember words from the books of my childhood and carry their wisdom with me as an adult. I found and still find so much comfort in the purity and magic of a children’s novel. From 5 to 25, I can still spend hours pouring over a single picture book, trying to pick out every single illustrative detail. Art is joyous! Stories are beautiful! These are the things that make life not just surviving, but thriving! 

The work I desire to do doesn’t cure cancer. It won’t stop Jeff Bezos or the rapid overconsumption of resources. I won’t halt a war with fantasy novels or paintings of children having fun. But once upon a time, when things in the big, scary world didn’t make sense to small Mary, I had books and illustrations to escape into, to comfort my restless heart. Maybe I won’t make anything of any significance to the broader world. But I think if I can make one child feel a little less worried, a little less alone, then I could never consider my work a failure. 

So I’ll move forward. I’ll apply for more things, even if I think I’ll be rejected. I’ll make a bunch of art I perceive as “bad” and it’ll be fun. I’ll write down all the stories in my head and even if no one ever wants to buy them, I’ll read them to my children one day and that will be enough.