“Everything you can imagine is real.”

 Pablo Picasso

My daughter-in-law and I chatted all weekend about the creative life, raising children and genealogy as somehow connected to our life’s purpose the last time she was up for a visit with my son and grandson.

On this visit Sam brought along a current project she is working on; a quilt that she estimates will take her at least two years to complete because she is doing it totally by hand. I had mentioned that my sister had just crocheted an amazing blanket and that I wanted to buy it from her.

“Well, no matter how much you pay her it would probably still be too little,” Sam said as she sewed little hexagons together.

I nodded in agreement.

“When I finish this quilt there is no way I’m selling it. I may show it somewhere, but I’ll never sell it. It will be a family heirloom.”

Her words struck me. Whenever I get into a panic about money (for no good reason usually) I flit off in seven different directions trying to make things to sell in a hurry. Yet I’m unable to mass produce things of quality and soon lose interest in those projects because they were ushered in under the wrong spirit.

Why, when my nieces come and fall in love with a doll I made, do I think this object would be better left in the hands of a stranger? I own a little set of drawers my great-grandfather made, and I cherish it. How much could he have sold it for?

This is not to say that one should never be paid for their work, but it left me wondering how often I rob myself of joy by considering how much cash I receive from a creative endeavor as the most important indicator of its worth.

I wrote and published six books without taking a breather. The process of creating was extremely joyful, but as soon as I published the books, I became obsessed with sales.

In the wrong spirit. It came from a place of needing so much validation. One, ten, one hundred reviews — when would it be enough? I used the process to beat myself up for not marketing correctly (instead of taking a deep breath and maybe learning one thing at a time and enjoying it).

Perfectionism creeps so easily back into my psyche.

Yet here was an extremely talented artist, Sam, at peace with making an heirloom.

I realized that I did not celebrate for even a day, a moment, after my books were published. It was almost as if they had fallen into a black whole of an evil marketing god of my own creation. After six books I acted as though I was at square one again, as if I had never written anything and now my worth was back at zero.

All of this was going on as we were caring for the unhinged foster kid, expanding our little farm and caring for my husband’s dying father. While we were sleeping in our basement in a crowded house with alarms on doors so the foster kid wouldn’t escape all I could do was beat myself up for poor marketing (maybe it was a bizarre form of coping).

So last week when I was feeling a little under the weather I decided, you know what, I’m taking some time to see how I feel about my books, to be with them, to flip through the pages and possibly enjoy them as future family heirlooms.

Here’s what I’ve discovered so far:

Forgive me for being so self-indulgent here. I needed a break from the ADOPTION STORY. I still have three books to sit back and enjoy (hopefully), but Sam has taught me a valuable lesson (one that should have been obvious maybe). Doing what you love has to be its own reward even if you plan on marketing it later. Taking this time has reminded me of the fun I had working on the covers (with Sam who designed them) and going back and forth with KEVIN BRENNAN my editor (once I finally valued myself enough to have my work professionally edited) who had to live with my characters for close to a year and was an amazing encouragement!

I never had a party or popped champagne for these books. I should have. But it’s fine. As I sit NOW with Buck and Thankful and all the rest, I am rewarded discovering that I like my writing. I’m proud of it. When I was that traumatized child (the person I carried well into my middle years) I never would have imagined I’d have the courage to write books. I never imagined I’d be able to write the exact books I so much enjoy reading! It’s like being a child again but without the messy trauma.

How do you celebrate your accomplishments? Or are you like me rushing on to the next thing all the time?