The Navy Pier Fireworks & Writing my First Novel
What's the best part of writing? And what if, God forbid, it's right now?
I had a feeling this would be the year everything changed.
It's summer 2022, and I'm living in Chicago after seven months on the road. It's shorts and a sweatshirt weather by the lake, and I'm walking the dog up the lakeshore path as the sky melts from blue to blue-gray to the perfect blue-black backdrop for tonight's fireworks. Navy Pier shoots them off twice a week all summer, and living half a block away, I miss no chance to catch the show—or to brag to my Instagram story about my view. Lately, all I do is write and drink Fresca and ignore my texts, so when I leave the apartment, I make a point of posting proof.
It’s been two weeks since I quit my job to pursue writing my novel, and like most things, I’m still learning how to do it a little at a time. This week, I’ve spent almost all of my waking hours picking apart a sticky wad of plot, and the more I work on it, the less I’m able to pry myself away. As a result, I’ve been exhibiting the sort of behavior better suited for Chicago winters: holing up with my work and stepping out only when the dog needs to be walked. I count the boats on the lake and swear to catch some sunlight tomorrow, but when I inevitably stay buried in my manuscript until well past dinner time, I promise not to be too let down by me, either.
“I love my work, but on days like today when the plot won’t cooperate and the words feel stuck, I long for a way out that isn’t through.”
Halfway to Oak Street Beach, a notification buzzes on my phone, reminding me of a friend’s book release event tomorrow night. I don’t have many writer friends, but the ones I do have all seem to be publishing this year. They’re sharing their Publisher’s Marketplace announcements and preorder links. They’re going out on book tours and speaking at their high schools. That will be me eventually, I remind myself, but it feels so far away right now. They’re in the glory and I’m in the trenches, and on top of it all, that stupid “can we skip to the good part?” sound is trending on TikTok. What I’d give to skip to where they are, past the plotting and the revising and, well, the writing. I love my work, but on days like today when the plot won’t cooperate and the words feel stuck, I long for a way out that isn’t through.
As the night sky takes the stage, the dog and I dodge pedicabs and the occasional tourists on those four seater bikes. It’s a Wednesday, so it’s mostly locals out tonight. We pass a picnic of post-grad girls, a couple sharing a joint, and a cluster of hobby photographers setting up their tripods. The dog stops to sniff some of their equipment, and I apologize, but no one seems to mind. We walk a little farther up the path before turning around to post up a hundred or so yards north of the photographers. When the first firework lights the sky up white, I see why they picked this specific stretch of shore. This view is outstanding, and Chicago has never looked more photogenic.
“What if there is no grand finale? Or what if my phone dies before then? What if this is the only good part I get, and while I’m waiting for the flashy finish, I’m missing all the fireworks along the way?”
Before long, I’m watching the show through my phone, my eager thumb hovering over the big red button, ready to capture the perfect moment when it arrives. The mosquitoes are nipping at my ankles, so I’m hoping the grand finale isn’t too far away. Why settle for a picture of a singular firework when there’s a big, brag-worthy finale at the end? We all know the best part is on its way.
A hundred yards down the shore, the hobby photographers are already clicking away. I follow the angle of their lenses in time to watch a heart-shaped firework that goes off sideways. Not quite right, but pretty spectacular all the same. I snap a few photos of whatever goes off next, and my teeth lock together as I consider a very real possibility: what if there is no grand finale? Or what if my phone dies before then? What if this is the only good part I get, and while I’m waiting for the flashy finish, I’m missing all the fireworks along the way? I snap one more picture and pocket my phone, focusing less on the guilt and more on the sky while I try to ignore the pesky truth: that all this goes for my writing, too. I’m not guaranteed a grand finale book deal or critical acclaim worth bragging to Instagram about. And if it does come—the book deal, the signings, the speaking events at my high school—there will always be something else. No more sticky plot points, but inevitably, negative reviews and doubt and worrying if I’ll ever write anything that good ever again. For now, it’s just me and the story. What if that—what if now—is the good part?
The grand finale comes on all at once, and I don’t get a picture of it, nor do I bother posting any of the earlier shots I took. I decide to pocket this moment just for myself. In the harbor, the boats lean on their horns in one glorious, broken chord of applause. The photographers tear down their equipment, the tired couple stashes their roach, and the picnickers pack up their half-drunk wine and cracker boxes. The dog and I head home, but something has changed. Everything has changed. I had the feeling that it would.
***
It's summer 2023, and I'm sitting in our condo on the far north side of Chicago, sipping coffee on the section of couch that gets any sun. It’s Sunday morning, so there must've been Navy Pier fireworks last night, but I'm too far from the heart of the city to know. The dog is curled up next to me, a little sandy from her morning walk by the lake, but we're all a little sandy in the summertime with the beach just half a block away.
A month has passed since I sold my book, and less than a week since I announced it to great fanfare on all the usual social media outlets. It’s all happening like I’ve always dreamt it would: a two-book deal with a big 5 publishing house and an editor and agent who think I hang the moon each night. I'm an author now, with the occasional splash of marketing work and running my ghostwriting agency, of course. It’ll be a few weeks yet before I get my edits back, and then I’ll have a month to turn them around. For the first time in my career as a writer or otherwise, I get to put my feet up before the chaos unfurls again.
I don’t have any plans today apart from grocery shopping and brushing my teeth, so I peel myself off the couch to consider the home improvement to-do list scribbled on the chalkboard by the front door. It's massive, but I’m doing it a little at a time. It’s quiet in the condo apart from my dog’s quiet snores and the hum of the A/C kicking on. This, I decide, is the good part. It's been fireworks for so long that I started craving quieter skies.