You Don’t Have to Go to Clown College

on impostor syndrome, publishing, and the breath beneath the dream

Couple years back, I was cranking out the first attempt at a memoir—Lord help us, what I didn’t know about myself could fill a book—and I somehow managed to get a piece published online, plus an acceptance letter to a summer writing thing at Yale, which I promptly assumed was a clerical error (this is so me).

So I go to grab a social media handle under my writing name and guess what pops up? Another writer. Same name. About the same age. Except this one had already been published all over the damn place writing Young Adult fiction and—wait for it—she had graduated from clown college.

Clown college. I mean, what the hell.

I’ve got nothing against clowns. I’m sure they’re doing the Lord’s work out there. I’ve got nothing against Colleges of any sort. In fact, I’m kinda obsessed. But staring at this upside-down mirror version of myself—with my name and a book deal—I felt like someone let the air out of my lungs. There I was, elbow-deep in diapers and hospital wristbands, keeping one baby alive at Children’s Hospital while the other boys slept, and scratching out sentences at 2AM like some Dickensonian ghost woman.

So, I drew a little doodle one day with a reminder:
“You don’t have to go to clown college.”

It became my mantra. My scrap of inner permission. Every time that swirl of doubt or envy crept in, I looked at it and remembered: You don’t have to be anyone else. You’re already enough.

And today?

Well… today I’m officially published by a Big Five publisher.

Random House, baby.
This little 5-foot-tall pile of doubt, grit, and late-night sentences finally made it onto the shelf.

It’s a bucket list day.

And if you’re anything like me, walking around with an entire Costco pack of imposter syndrome, let me say this plainly:

Showing up to the page, trembling and earnest, is all it takes.
Actually, showing up anywhere creative, trembling and earnest, is all it takes.

I don’t say it lightly. It’s a massive undertaking just to get there. Somedays crushing.

When I wrote the words that now live in Chapter 2 of The Book of Alchemy, I had no idea they’d take me here. I wasn’t writing to impress anyone—I was just trying not to drown. And like anyone clutching a half-deflated life raft, I offered the other end to anyone else who might be going under.

Turns out, a lot of us are. (This book is for you. 📖 The Book of Alchemy – Order here)

We’re drowning in expectations—cultural, familial, internal. In the swampy soup of our own perfectionism. And still, through all that, we reach toward something tender and bright. That little voice that says:

“If I were truly free to create the way I want to, I would _______.”

That blank is holy. That’s the breath you blow into the raft.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

Sometimes I’m afraid to want what I want. Like it’ll vanish the second I name it. Or worse, go shack up with someone more qualified.

But recently, my wife’s best friend said something I’ll never forget:

“What you want wants you more.”

And today, somehow—despite every time I tied my own shoelaces together or second-guessed my own voice—I’m here. My name (now a moot point, changed after marrying) is printed inside the spine of this gorgeous, breathtaking book.

Oh—and last night, Elizabeth Gilbert (yes, that Liz Gilbert) said:

“This is going to be an iconic book. This is going to be a book that is on bookshelves next to Bird by Bird and The Artist’s Way and Big Magic.”

From her lips to God’s ears.

So—happy pub day.

To my radiant soul-sister, Suleika Jaouad, for dreaming this work into being. To my fellow contributors, who shared the raw, numinous truth of what it means to make art.

And to you.
Yes, you. Reading this in your pajamas, or on your lunch break, or while trying to scribble your first words of the week, at 2AM while your kids sleep.

This book is for you. 📖 The Book of Alchemy – Order here
It’s waiting to meet you right where you are.
And take you somewhere new.

I love you,
Ash

For proof of my insane disbelief, here’s a video Frances took of me opening my book.