I wrote a post that I meant to send from San Francisco, which I have had to scrap because it became redundant almost at once. The good news in question is this:
That, for those of you who are not scholars-by-circumstance of US immigration, is the end of a year-long wait for our next steps. It’s an indication that our initial petition has been approved and sent on to the next part of the process—the National Visa Center, which will create a new case number and send our information on to my consulate. We’re a few months out from the interview and (all being well!!) another month or so out from my wedding.
This news reached us the day before I left San Francisco. It’s been weird—it made the thought of parting easier (because we had something to celebrate and look forward to) and the reality of parting quite a bit more grim. It’s been harder to readjust to Halifax, with the anticipation of the big move looming so much larger than before. Plus I was intentionally vague about the “few months” for a reason: we don’t know how many, not for sure. NVC processing times range from under one month to slightly over three. It’s making logistical necessities, like “giving timely notice to my landlord” and “booking an affordable flight back to England,” a real bitch.
But ultimately, obviously, this is incredible news. When we first embarked on this process, we were looking at a longer wait time than this. As we got further into it, that expected wait time ballooned by months. We’re extremely lucky that USCIS went on a hiring spree around the end of 2022, which has enabled them to bring down processing times (for most people, at least) and send us on our way more quickly than we ever hoped.
We spent my last twenty-four hours in San Francisco looking at each other intermittently and whispering “We’re approved,” then lighting up into giggles like kids with an inside joke. Not long now. It’s an extraordinary relief to know that much.
There’s another bit of news (less good) that I think I wove pretty neatly into the previous draft of this newsletter. Irritatingly, it’s proving harder to be narrative about it this time around, so I’m just going to say the thing. I parted ways with my literary agent. There.
I don’t want to say too much about the decision itself. No harm, no foul; it felt necessary and I think it was the right choice. It also feels like a tremendous step backwards, at a time when the industry is both overcrowded and heavily backlogged. So there’s that.
I got through the immigration wait (and am continuing to do so) by going limp. It’s kind of like travel that way. In the face of big institutional machinery, which grinds along with or without your involvement, it simply isn’t worth it to hold yourself in tension. You risk being smashed apart the minute you hit a patch of bad luck.
This works less well in publishing, where you have to want to succeed. Otherwise, how are you going to advocate for yourself and do the hard work and fend off the doubt when it hits? It’s like immigration, which is like travel, except that you’re also the one driving the process (or the car).
The hard work right now, the thought I don’t know how to counter, is this: I don’t know if I can fend off the doubt. I don’t know if the belief is there anymore.
I always used to be certain that I could succeed as a writer. That certainty was foundational, the bedrock of my life. I’ve never had a meaningful backup plan. I paid the bills with administrative busywork that I genuinely believe almost anyone could do. I knew it would be hard, but I also believed it was kind of a meritocracy, and I believed I was both good enough and driven enough to make it work in my favour.
Now I know that’s not how it works. Every time I sit down to write, that knowledge is there, a clot of wet ash where conviction used to burn in me. Even if I do my best work, it might not find the right advocate; it might not be marketable; it might not get off the ground. The odds are not in my favour. And I’m tired. I’ve been tired for a while. I don’t know how much more fight I have in me, when the outcome is uncertain and I literally just lost all the ground I had previously gained.
I’m not giving up. I’m querying as hard and as efficiently as I can; I have a book in my back pocket, still, and it’s probably fair that my ability to write is a little compromised under so much external stress. (I don’t think immigration is helping. Imagine that!)
But I’ve said before that people don’t talk about the experience of the industry (versus the process of writing) enough. It would feel disingenuous to keep all this under lock and key.
I don’t say any of this to undercut the good immigration news. The fact is that the good immigration news is sustaining me. Everything else is uncertain and I don’t know what comes next—but I do know that in 2024, one way or another, I’m going to be married to Isaac. It’s going to come good. Something is going to come good, after a very long season of waiting, and I’m so glad it’s this.
I never expected the happiness or safety or love that I share with Isaac. I never hoped for it. It’s an unprecedented gift. There is nothing in the world I would change it for, if I could.
Wish us luck, everybody. I would really like to be living with him by Christmas.