Lauren Oliver's Blog

Some books kind of flow. You know, you sit down at your computer every day, and the story just kind of unspools through your fingers, like you’re not so much writing as just tugging on a long ribbon that reveals itself in print.

WHAT HAPPENED TO LUCY VALE was not one of those books. First of all, I switched publishers like a billion times (actually three), because this book almost defeated me. I just could not finish the d*mn thing. I was dealing with a bunch of personal issues simultaneously, to be fair — getting sober; getting divorced; getting breast cancer — and my headspace looked a bit like a cross between the TV show Hoarders and Disney’s Haunted Mansion. I’ll get into this more deeply later, as it ultimately offered profound and important mid-life lessons that I hope will be valuable to share. But at the time it felt like I was wandering a hallway without end, i.e. without any clear sense of where I was going, or even that there was “somewhere” to go. (Spoiler alert: that was actually part of the lesson.)

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Also, the book kept changing: in scope and ambition, in theme and message. I was dealing with themes and events that were both personally resonant and, I felt, really important to handle fairly and truly. Point is, I had to go through a lot—a LOT—of pain and drafting to finish WHAT HAPPENED TO LUCY VALE.

And that’s okay. Some books flow, sure. Some seasons flow, too—auspicious events seem to jostle into place as if they’re on a receiving line waiting to greet you; everything falls into place.

But some books, like some seasons, are just thorny. They’re hard and barren, or wildly confused. Those are the books—and seasons—that teach you how to stay there on your knees, fingernails caked in dirt, even when your heart is bursting with fear and your instincts tell you to run.

Ultimately, states of flow teach us about the garden. About the giver. About the mysterious source of all inspiration. But states of struggle teach us about ourselves.

I finished the book (obviously). And the season has begun to shift in my personal life, too. I moved states to be closer to my sister and my family. I got new (fake) boobs, and a clean bill of health from my doctor. My next book, which comes out in May 2026, absolutely flowed—I drafted it in four months, and it’s great and so much fun. I bought a sweet little house, and decorated it mostly in pink—a benefit, my sister pointed out, to being divorced. I didn’t date for a long time. Then, mysteriously, I was ready. Recently I started dating someone who truly makes my soul come alive, and simultaneously makes it stretch out in peace and comfort, like a cat in the sun. It’s an incredible gift.

I would never have gotten here unless I’d stuck it out through that season of mud and wilderness, forced to ask every day what was really worth planting, and what could be pruned away.

So to celebrate that necessary season of hardship, here are some excerpts from a 2021 Draft that never made it into the finished novel.

They had to be pruned, ultimately.

But they still taught me something important about where I was going.

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Well, it’s happening. My seventeenth book, WHAT HAPPENED TO LUCY VALE, comes out in two days. (Actually, it’s my nineteenth book—I wrote two wild experimental books under top-secret pseudonyms They kind of both fell on their face, even though I did earn a wild review comparing one of my novels to A Canticle For Leibowitz, but with more robot hookers!)

A friend of mine asked me whether I still got nervous about publication. The answer is no. I don’t still get nervous. I still get terrified. I am enormously afraid of failure, and it’s one of my largest daily challenges. It’s an old and familiar thought-pattern that spirals easily into worst-case scenarios: what if no one, not one person, reads the book? What if my publisher decides to yank support for my next book? What if I then can’t find anyone to publish my books again? Do I even have any books to publish? Do I have any ideas left? Do I have anything of value to say? Maybe I should just dig a hole, build a tent, and live out my life as a hermit.

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Yes, this is an accurate description of my daily inner monologue.

It’s funny, though, because as I began scrutinizing this today, I realized that I have spent much of my life failing in one way or another. (See above, re: the secret experimental novel with robot hookers). I started developing creative technology in 2016; we didn’t get a single client until 2024. I have written at least one script, and pitched at least one show, for Hollywood every year since 2014. It was 2021 when my first TV show, Panic, came out, and that was cancelled after one season. I still have never actually gotten a feature made. Some of my books have been wildly successful; others have come and gone with barely a whisper on the surface of social media. Funnily enough, those have been many of my favorites: Liesl and Po, for example, a middle-grade novel that I have always felt is one of my best.

And yet here I am, still cobbling together a creative career, doing the work I love, experimenting—and, I hope, growing as a human and a writer.

The problem with predictions is that we draw them in straight lines: from X event to Y outcome, simple as that. But the real world is, as my tech friends would say, stochastic: messy, surprising, extremely hard to anticipate, constantly giving rise to new challenges and, simultaneously, new opportunities. Actually, it’s our self-determined forecasts of the future that so often hem us into a straight line towards the outcome we most feared. On days when I am convinced that everything I write will fail, for example, it's almost impossible to motivate myself to do any writing!

Point is: I really need to stop freaking out. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Just in case, though, I might buy a tent today…

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Hi, everyone!

Thanks for stopping by. I wanted to welcome you and explain why I’m here. Well, I am not entirely sure yet! Usually I’ve very plan-oriented.

I know that I really enjoy interacting with readers, but I don’t find other social platforms particularly satisfying. I’ve never maintained a mailing list, and I think it would be beneficial to have a central spot for talking to readers.

Up until now, everything I have to say that isn’t in my narrative work tends to drip out in interviews, at book events, or in various online formats, none of which feel entirely natural to me.

I am, in the end, a writer, so I figure why not connect with people here, in one place, in the form best suited to me? Paragraphs!

I like the idea of sharing things I wouldn’t publish anywhere else in an orderly fashion that makes sense to me.

For readers of my books, I hope I can answer questions and share behind-the-scenes stuff, like early notes, unpublished chapters (okay, we’ll see.) I’ll figure out the chat room feature, and do a live Q and A in there.

For fellow writers and artists, I will likely post reflections on writing, process, story, the business. Conversations with other writers on here could be fun. Recommendations for books, what I’m reading currently, and what has impacted me in the past.

It’s even possible this Substack becomes the first and only place I write about…my life, as in non-fiction. That could mean, you know, recipes, but that could also mean more personal dispatches. I’ll dip my toes in and see how it feels.

I’m interested in having a vehicle for writing that isn’t project-based, but more ongoing, a conversation with readers with a sense of continuity.

Thanks so much for joining me here.

Lauren

PS. Thanks to my friends and who told me I should join Substack.

Hi, everyone!

I wanted to welcome you and explain why I’m here. I am not entirely sure yet! Usually I’ve very plan-oriented. I just know I want a place to share what I can’t publish anywhere else, in an orderly fashion, that makes sense to me.

Up until now, everything that isn’t in my narrative work tends to drip out in interviews, at book events, or in various spots online that don’t feel entirely natural to me. I am, in the end, a writer, so I figure why not do it here, on one place, in the way best suited to me? Paragraphs!

For fans of my books, I hope I can answer questions and share fun behind-the-scenes stuff, like early notes, unpublished chapters (okay, we’ll see.)

For fellow writers and artists, I will likely post reflections on writing, process, story, the business. Conversations with other writers on here could be fun. Recommendations, books and more, what I’m reading currently, and what has impacted me in the past.

It’s even possible this Substack becomes the first and only place I write about…my life, as in non-fiction. That could mean recipes, but that could also mean more personal dispatches. I’ll dip my toes in and see how it feels!

It’s an experiment! But I’m very interested in having a vehicle for writing that isn’t project based, but more ongoing, a conversation with readers, with a sense of continuity.

Thanks so much for joining me here.

Lauren

PS. Thanks to my wise friends and who told me I should join Substack and as Jacqueline said “I will you set it up for you and all I want in return is for all of your fans to subscribe to ours too.”

perfect-storms:

Once upon a time, there was a girl made of dirt.

She lived in a town full of stone people.

“You’re nothing,” they all said to the girl made of dirt. “Nothing.”

Every night, the girl made of dirt would talk to the wind… and the wind would only sigh.

The girl was lonely. Then one day, there was a storm. It rained for days and days. The water climbed and climbed, higher and higher. Soon, the stone people were trapped, begging the wind to take them to safety.  But the stone people were too heavy to carry. 

Then the wind spotted the girl made of dirt. She would be no problem to carry.  So the wind opened its arms, and the girl made of dirt turned to air… 

and flew

chloedckers:

i saw you f l y

❤️❤️❤️

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True story: HEAVEN spelled backward is AUNT. Trust me I’m a writer.

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