Hi Reader,

I continue to be obsessed with Olympic figure skating.

I’ve been listening to the U.S. Figure Skating podcast to hear how the skaters were thinking about their experiences and expectations in the leadup to the Olympics.

I’ve looked up interviews to hear how Ilia Malinin is talking about his medal and his falls, now that he has a week and a half of distance from both.

I’m devouring articles about Alysa Liu, ravenous to understand how she could skate with such peace and openhandedness, and what it is that she truly cares about (it’s not her two gold medals!).

I am enthralled with her. The authority, the confidence, the self-knowledge, the joy, the freedom, the peace, the genuine acceptance of any outcome, the utter nonchalance about what the judges think, the assurance that she has already won simply by stepping onto the ice as herself—that is what I want to cultivate in the writers I work with.

It’s how I want you to show up to your story. To the journey of pitching and publishing. To the podium of sharing your novel with the world.

I want you to bring your whole self to the page and write with freedom and joy and abandon, the way Alysa skates.

I want you to delight in offering your art to the world, the way Alysa competes.

And when you enter the pitch process, I want you to know, deep in your bones, that regardless of what gatekeepers say, you have already won. You have already created exceptional art, and you will get it into the right readers’ hands, whether the gatekeepers “choose” you or not.

The way Alysa sits in the kiss-and-cry, waiting to hear the judges’ scores, with a smile that won’t be shaken no matter what number they announce.

This is not how any other skater showed up to these Olympic games. I’m not sure if any Olympic skater has ever shown up like this, so purely joyful and genuinely unconcerned with whether or not they win a medal.

It’s also not how most writers show up to the page, and especially the pitch process.

It doesn’t guarantee a medal or a book deal.

But it does guarantee that you have already won, no matter how judges or gatekeepers respond.

I’ll be thinking (and most likely writing) about Alysa’s skate for a long time.

But today, I want to leave you with a video you might not have seen.

It was filmed during Alysa’s short program. But this camera was pointed not at the rink, but at her coaches, Phillip DiGuglielmo and Massimo Scali, watching from the side.

“Enjoy,” Phillip says, a moment before her music starts.

They lean along with her jumps, count her spins, and mouth the words of her song.

And when she steps off the rink, they celebrate with her. Not because of her score—they don’t know that yet.

They celebrate with her because they know what it took for her to get there. They know what she wanted from the experience. And they know that according to her goals, the only metric they’ve used to measure her success from the moment she returned to the ice, she’s already won.

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What would it feel like to write with joyful abandon? To share your art with the world without the need for anyone else’s approval or validation? And, when you step away from the page, to be celebrated by coaches who are wholeheartedly committed to your success on your terms?

I’m wishing you a little taste of Alysa Liu energy today.

Happy editing,

Alice

P.S. In case you’re wondering, yes, I am still listening to Cha Jun-Hwan’s short program song on loop. In fact, it's playing right now.

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