9 min
The Algebra of Writing a Book
As I stood there before friends, family, colleagues, and the people who had actually agreed to come celebrate a book I wrote, I found myself thinking about how all of this had become possible. There it was my name on the cover. A real book. Something that had started as a vague idea, survived several versions, considerable self-doubt, and a few grammatical interventions, and somehow made it into the world. People frequently ask me about the process. How did you write a book? Where did the idea come from? How did you actually get it finished? The honest answer is that I didn't really know what I was doing. I just kept going long enough to figure some things out. So, in honour of the launch, I thought I would share the formula. I call it The Algebra of Writing a Book. A quick disclaimer before we begin. This is a personal formula, based on a sample size of one, occasionally supervised by a patient editor and a ten-pound she-dog named Dottie, who treats every writing session as a personal invitation to stop working and pay attention. It has not been peer-reviewed by an actual mathematician, unless being an MBA student now qualifies me to turn every human experience into an equation, whether it wants to cooperate or not. The inspiration came partly from Scott Galloway, whose The Algebra of Happiness and The Algebra of Wealth take complicated subjects and distil them into memorable formulas (Galloway, 2019, 2024). What I admired was not the formula at the end of each chapter. It was the discipline behind it. He takes a messy human subject, studies it long enough to understand the mechanics, and then gives readers something they can actually use. For years, I have spent at least a couple of hours a day reading or listening to people who think more clearly than I do. I don't just want to know what they think. I want to understand how they got there. How did they make that point? Why did that sentence work? What did they leave out? Where did they slow down? A surprising number of the ideas I now think of as my own started somewhere else. I turn them over, pull them apart, mix them with my own experience, and, if I'm lucky, they come back sounding like me. I think of them as my thought babies: borrowed genetics, raised in my household until they develop a personality. Research + Experience + Curiosity = Original Ideas At least, that was the theory. Then life decided to test it. At 65, I lost my job. Financially, I was fine. Thirty years in financial services had taken care of that. Emotionally, however, I discovered I had built a surprisingly large part of my identity on a business card. Take away the title, the office, the meetings, the responsibilities and the people who needed you to make decisions, and suddenly you are left wondering who exactly you are supposed to be on Tuesday morning. Naturally, I responded in the most emotionally healthy way I could think of. I built a business case for my reinvention. There was a timeline. There were measurable deliverables. There may even have been a Gantt chart. Picture it: a newly unemployed woman trying to project-manage her emotional recovery as though grief were a product launch. Phase One: Feel Better. Phase Two: Discover New Purpose. Phase Three: Become Inspiring. It was a spectacular failure. A few weeks later, I was sitting in my car in a grocery store parking lot with the engine off, unwilling to go inside and buy milk like someone who actually had somewhere to be. My beautifully organized recovery plan had collapsed somewhere around Phase One. It turns out grief has very little respect for bullet points. What I needed was permission to be a mess for a while. So I gave myself one small instruction: write something five days a week. Not something good. Not something publishable. Not something anyone besides Dottie and I would ever read. Just something. I did not commit to writing a book. I committed to trying. I gave myself permission to be terrible at it for as long as it took. That turned out to be the important part. Somewhere in all that low-stakes trying, I fell in love with writing. I became fascinated by how a good writer can take an idea you’ve been carrying around vaguely for years and suddenly put exactly the right words around it. You read the sentence and think, yes. That's it. That's exactly what I've been trying to say. Stealing Homework David Brooks once described writers as “beggars who tell other beggars where they found bread.” He used the phrase in a 2023 Persuasion interview with Yascha Mounk, calling it one of his favourite sayings about writing (Mounk, 2023). I loved it because it gave me permission to stop pretending that every good idea had originated in my own head. I started paying attention not only to what good writers said but also to how they built an argument, why certain words carried more weight, and how a simple metaphor could sometimes accomplish what three pages of explanation could not. I carried a notebook everywhere. I wrote down phrases that stopped me. I noticed metaphors the way other people notice good haircuts. Patricia O'Conner's Woe Is I: The Grammarphobe's Guide to Better English in Plain English quietly repaired decades of my grammatical freelancing as I tried to figure out why six words could sometimes explain something better than six paragraphs. Then came Christine. Two years and three complete versions of the manuscript later, I had something that vaguely resembled a book. That was largely thanks to Christine, a PhD, teacher, and four-time published author, who agreed to help a woman whose writing experience began and ended with mortgage disclosure statements. Christine was smart, generous, and wonderfully direct. She was also a regular in my GoodLife Fitness classes, which meant she had already watched me botch choreography in public before she read a word of my writing. I had very little dignity left to protect. Her first editorial assessment was concise: “Sue, your grammar sucks.” Fair enough. Her second question was why I insisted on capitalizing the word Mortgage as though it deserved the same reverence as God or Beyoncé. I still don’t have a good answer. But Christine's most important contribution had nothing to do with grammar. My manuscript was full of financial information and professional jargon. It was smart enough, but it wasn't human enough. Buried inside it was Clara, a character representing the ordinary people I had spent my career trying to help. The truth was that I had trouble accessing the human side of aging, finance and retirement. It was much easier to talk about the process and the products than to be vulnerable about what I had actually gone through. Christine kept pushing me. Tell the human story. Go deeper. Be more vulnerable. Stop hiding behind your expertise. She was right. Slowly, Clara became more real. As Clara became more real, so did I. Somewhere along the way, I stopped being an author trying to protect my professional credibility and became a woman willing to be seen. That changed the book. It also changed me. It helped me heal some of the wounds I hadn't realized I was carrying. And somewhere in the middle of all that editing, Christine and I became better friends. I didn't want to disappoint her, which turned out to be a far better motivator than any deadline. Finishing the manuscript didn’t feel like a triumph. It felt more like handing someone something soft and unfinished, hoping they wouldn’t drop it. As long as the book was unfinished, I had an excellent excuse: “I’m working on a book.” Very impressive. Very aspirational. Very safe. Once it was finished, there was nowhere left to hide. So I hired an agent and let him absorb the rejection on my behalf. He sent the manuscript out. Three responses came back. One publisher said, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Two said yes. Suddenly, a woman with three decades in mortgage lending, a character named Clara, and an unapologetic attachment to writing was going to be an author. Which brings me to the actual algebra. Curiosity + Permission to Fail + Consistent Effort + Time = A Finished Manuscript Notice what is missing. There is no talent requirement. No inspiration variable. No line item for knowing what you're doing before you start. There is simply a small, repeatable behaviour applied without judging the results too harshly. And here is the part I especially want to emphasize: I was 65 when I lost my job, and 70 when my book was published. Five years. Is five years too long to reinvent yourself? I doubt it. We have somehow convinced ourselves that reinvention should happen quickly, preferably between lunch and the afternoon news. But some things take time. Five years gave me time to learn, write badly, rewrite, improve, find my voice, work with Christine, survive rejection, heal old wounds, and eventually become an author. Five years earlier, I would never have put “write a book” on my list of things to do. At 65, I was trying to figure out who I was without the job that had defined so much of my adult life. At 70, I was standing in front of friends and family, holding a published book with my name on it. Here is the link to the the launch party interview if you have 37 minutes (or 24 minutes at 1.5x). We spend a lot of time planning for retirement as though we are planning a trip. We think about where we will live, how much money we will need, and what we will do with our time. All important questions. But life doesn't always follow the itinerary. Sometimes the thing you think is the ending turns out to be the beginning of the next chapter. My other formula became: Loss + Curiosity + Permission + Action + Time = Reinvention My two background mantras throughout all of this were simple: It is never too late. If not now, when? They sound almost embarrassingly obvious, but obvious does not mean easy. I have watched too many people postpone the things they want to do until some imaginary future when they will have more time, more confidence, more energy, or fewer obligations. There is always a reason to wait. I had plenty of them myself. You cannot get to “one day” without committing to “day one.” For me, day one wasn't about writing a book. It was about writing one thing. Then another. Then another. Five days out of seven. Eventually, those small acts of showing up became a manuscript. The manuscript became a book. And five years after losing my job, at 70, that book became real. And I became a better human. Scott Galloway gave me the idea of looking for the algebra beneath a complicated subject. David Brooks gave me permission to admit that writers borrow, learn from, and build on one another. Christine gave me the courage to stop hiding behind my expertise and to let the human story into the book. Dottie gave me a very reliable reason to stop writing and go for a walk. And a 65-year-old woman who had just lost a huge part of her identity gave herself permission to be bad at something new. Five days out of seven. For long enough. Apparently, that was enough. Today, Your Retirement Reset is out in the world, on bookshelves, in libraries, and with readers across Canada. More than fifty blog posts have grown out of the same process, a considerably better showing than that Gantt chart ever managed. If there is something on the back burner that you keep telling yourself you will do someday, don't start with the big plan. Try something small. Give yourself permission to be terrible. Then show up again. Make tomorrow your day one. Because sometimes reinvention doesn't arrive with a grand announcement. Sometimes it quietly wanders in while you're busy doing something else. That is how I wrote a book. And perhaps more importantly, that is how I discovered I wasn't finished becoming whoever comes next. It is never too late. If not now, when? Sue My Book is Available for Order: I hope you will consider ordering a copy of Your Retirement Reset for yourself, a friend, or someone you love. Published by ECW Press and is available through Indigo or Amazon and McNally Robinson. If you like supporting Canadian booksellers, check with your local independent bookstore too. Most can order it.
