be a bulldog.

on a year of writing on substack, doing nanowrimo, and measuring success

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“Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.” - Calvin Coolidge

I’m doing NaNoWriMo next month.

For the unfamiliar or uninitiated, ‘doing NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) means that I’ll be writing 1,667 words of a story per day from tomorrow morning until November 30th. On December 1st, I’ll have written a whole novel.

To pull me through November, I made up a new mantra. It’s simple, effective, and most importantly, easy to mumble under my breath when the going gets tough.

I am a bulldog.

I was recently inspired by this interview with author Rachel Cusk, in which she discusses a pivotal life experience. A dear friend from childhood, meaningfully talented at violin playing, wanted to become a visual artist.

It didn’t seem realistic: this friend was ‘terrible at art’.

Still, Cusk watched them turn themselves from an inexperienced painter into a well-known and respected one, entirely through their own self-will. This friend could’ve had a successful career as a musician—both her parents were violinists too, and they’d enrolled her in classes since she was a young girl—but that wasn’t her dream, and due to her tenacity, it wouldn’t be her life.

This anecdote moved me. It reminded me where I was a year and a half ago, when I brought three of my best poems to my poetry professor’s office to unconsciously ask him what my own life could be.

His feedback was positive, exciting even, yet I remember little of what he said besides one comment:

“Most poets only find real success by their forties, or as late as their fifties or sixties. There’s some good work here, but success as a poet takes decades. Keep going, but slow down.”

He recognized impatience in me, even when I didn’t.

I’ve had a few poems printed in small publications since that meeting, an honorary mention in a local contest, and a response letter suggesting I was nearly a finalist in a national competition. But more than any good news, I’ve been met with a daunting stream of rejection.

My ‘better’ poems were rejected with little more than a sentence in response, and it took about 4-6 months to get a response (if I heard anything at all.) I edit each for hours once they’re sent back, but even by chipping away at what I thought was an already finished statue, how will I know it’s any ‘better’ once I’m ‘finished’?

My poetry professor was right: the road is long, and determination is key.

I work best when I have concrete reasons not to stop. This is why Substack has been a blessing for me: building an audience demands regular attendance, and even when I don’t love what I’ve written, I have to show up regardless.

November marks a full year of running my Substack, and this is my thirtieth post.

Like submitting poetry, it’s incredibly easy to get swept into self-doubt cycles when looking at numbers and metrics. I catch myself worrying, am I doing well enough? Are my pieces getting enough engagement? Likes? Comments? Views?

I can’t ask myself these questions anymore, because beneath them hides an even bigger, ultimately useless one: should I keep going?

On both sides of a year, I’ve felt about the same about posting my newsletter: hopeful but uncertain. I’ve gotten more comfortable despite this, and I’ve built up my resolve. Time and repetition alone that brought me more engagement, better time management, and that produced (whether I love it all), written work.

Keep going is the only solution.

you may not like it, but this is what peak performance looks like.

So for the rest of the year, I seek to embody the bulldog: stubborn, perseverant, and undoubting. Bulldogs are the essence of don’t give up, don’t let go: as they latch onto toys, bones, or limbs, we must hold onto our dreams by the skin of our teeth if we want them at all.

Life demands that we let go from time to time—autumn is the best season to recognize this fact—but I believe there are values, habits, and dreams you can never let go of, not for even a second. Too many responsibilities, distractions, and unexpected forces in daily life pull at our attention.

Like Lauren Parker wrote in one of my favorite essays, “Real words are stolen.” She adds, “Writing is the radical act that in a world that wants to gobble up every last bite of your time and energy, you shut it down and put your ass in the chair.”

Life plays a tug of war with our time, our attention, and more than anything, our dreams. Why should we lose?

I’ve loved writing forever, but I’ve only been truly ‘latched on’ for a year now. Substack gave me that determination: you reading this forces me to be the bulldog I want (and need) to be. By the merit of having a platform to share it on, writing has become a game I want to win by never being beat.

I will never give up posting, even if I don’t post on time, or if I don’t get views, likes, or comments. I will never stop.

haha. unless…

NaNoWriMo similarly inheres the bulldog mindset in its execution. Rather than essays, it’s writing 50,000 words in a sort of sequestered marathon.

The name of the game is putting words on the page: no editing, no readers, no overthinking. It’s just you, and the nearly constant act of creation.

I’ve succeeded in this month-long maneuver three times, hitting the 50,000 word finish line at 15, 16, and 17 years old. In other words, I wrote a virtually unreadable book three times in a row.

I knew each novel was despicable even as I labored over them for hours, but that’s not the point. The point was: I was finishing something.

At the end of each year, I’d have a handwritten testament to a level of consistency I struggled to reach anywhere else in my life. That, and I learned how to write my way out of plots I wasn’t sure about, how to shape original characters, how to lock. NaNoWriMo steeps writers in the single action that makes us who we want to be: a writer, writing.

I could concede here that bulldoggedness isn’t always good advice. Maybe sometimes, dreams should be let go. Perhaps doing the same thing over and over doesn’t necessarily improve a skill, even if you love the process: if you never see ‘quantifiable success’, maybe you should stop.

But I won’t concede. That’s a quitter’s line of thought, and the world would love to see us follow it.

Writers who understand the common definition of insanity will (eventually) detect that something’s wrong with their process if their product doesn’t ‘measure up’ in their eyes. Changing up the process becomes necessary to reach whatever ‘success’ looks like to them. With enough mindful changes, growth is inevitable—but quitting prevents growth (or success) of any kind.

Even if a writer doesn’t change their process and chooses authorial ‘insanity’ instead, who’s to say their process isn’t a ‘successful’ one to them?

It has to be asked: what does success look like?

Success in writing is often seen as getting published, receiving ‘widespread’ acclaim on a work, or increasing one’s readership, eventually leading to the ultimate goal of steady money.

It’s not that these lofty goals aren’t worth pursuing (I am in hot pursuit of them), but that laser focus on these ends make the long road appear mostly fruitless as we’re walking it. In reality, it’s anything but.

Substack (and NaNoWriMo, and submitting poetry, and endurance goals in general) taught me that I don’t always know what success will look like.

If every article I write is around 1,500 words in length, with this being my thirtieth, I’ll have written around 45,000 words. To me, that feels a lot like success.

I’ve collaborated with several publications on Substack, relating to travel, health, and literature. I’ve made new friends, one of which I even got coffee with (the unexpected actualization of my blog name is one of my biggest wins)! And in reviewing my work from last November until now, I enjoy both writing and reading every piece a little bit more each post.

It took me far too long to realize that any success I’ve found as a writer has been a direct result of being consistent; of loving the process even when I’m not confident in it, and hanging on, even when it’s for dear life.

Now repeat after me: I am a bulldog.

w/ love,

constanze