This past weekend, I was happily flipping through the latest issue of Writer’s Digest on my living room couch when I stumbled across an article that made me stop in my tracks. Titled “Understanding How to Use Song Lyrics in Your Work,” it started off by reminding writers that using lyrics in your book without permission could land you in a major lawsuit. The article then delved into the complex legal process of obtaining permission, outlining the documents you’d need signed, the fees involved, and the often-maddening bureaucratic hurdles.
When I finished reading the piece, I closed the magazine and stared at the wall, dumbfounded. You see, I’m more than halfway through writing the first draft of a new novel, and I’ve used song lyrics (mostly from the 90s—yes, awesome music) in several places, without giving it a second thought. I’d assumed that as long as the song was in the public domain and you attributed it directly to the artist in your text, you were good to go. I had no idea that these legal complexities even existed until I read that article.
Better to find out sooner than later, right? Like, before sending your manuscript to a literary agent and looking like a total moron...or getting sued by House of Pain.
Still, I was shaken. At this point, I’m more likely to remove the lyrics from my manuscript than go through the legal headache of obtaining permission from the artists’ lawyers. But it wasn’t really about the lyrics themselves—it was the sense of being uninformed, despite my years of effort to educate myself. It’s that sting of feeling incompetent that cuts the deepest.
I’ve been writing for over a decade, but I only recently made the leap into the commercial space. (Most of my writing experience is in academia and government/defense.) Anyone who’s tried their hand at commercial writing knows that mastering the craft is just the start. You also have to learn the ins and outs of publishing, marketing, media relations, copyright, and even entertainment law. It’s like finally learning how to toss a ball, only to be asked to juggle flaming swords at a circus.
Over a year ago, I showed up at a writer’s conference in Los Angeles to pitch a manuscript I’d polished to a shine. Before showing up to the conference, I had sent the manuscript to an editor for that extra layer of polish, consulted my entertainment lawyer, and read countless books and articles on the publishing industry. I thought I had everything covered—until every literary agent I pitched to on the first day pointed out that my manuscript’s word count was way too high for its genre.
In fact, the very first agent I pitched to—like, the first agent I ever pitched to in my life—was so appalled by my ignorance about word count that he didn’t even let me finish my pitch. He told me to “go away” and come back after I had learned the basics of the industry.
I went back to my hotel room that day and stared at the wall for a solid ten minutes, wishing I could flush myself down the toilet. How could I have missed something so fundamental, so obvious, as word count?
As much as I wanted to crawl into a hole and avoid day two of the conference, I sucked it up and returned. When I bumped into that same agent, I made a point to tip my coffee cup to him, wish him a good morning, and thank him for his feedback from yesterday. Later that afternoon, despite my word count faux pas, the conference organizers invited me to pitch my story in front of the entire audience of attendees because they considered my story so unique and my pitch well-packaged. By the end of the conference, that same agent ended up giving me his business card and told me to reach out once I’d cut my manuscript down to size.
(That manuscript, a memoir about my struggles with mental health while serving in the Israeli security community, is now within the acceptable word count range, but is temporarily on hold. The hold is a whole other topic, but if you’re curious, you can check out my recent article in The Times of Israel titled “Literary Fatwa.”)
It’s tough to feel like you don’t know something, especially in front of an audience. But I'm going to assume that everyone goes through this at some point in their lives. Mistakes happen. This is particularly true when you venture into a new field or career. Unfortunately, some people are so afraid of failure that they give up at the first misstep. Others try to hide their mistakes, or avoid starting anything new out of fear of messing up. But if we let fear take the wheel, we miss out on all the opportunities to learn and grow.
I recently had coffee with a much older, much wiser woman with a career that has spanned linguistics, espionage, and healthcare. We talked about our college days, and I joked about the many mistakes I made in my twenties. She immediately corrected me: “You weren’t screwing up. You were just learning.”
What a difference that perspective makes. A much better one, actually. It’s one I try to remind myself of every time I “screw up”—because mistakes are part of life. What matters is how we deal with them. Instead of letting a mistake erode our confidence, we can turn it into a chance to grow and improve.
In an article in Harvard Business Review last year, successful entrepreneur Elena Betés Novoa reflected on the silver lining of failure. Betés, who founded the insurance comparison platform Rastreator and sold it in 2021 for $620 million, has experienced her fair share of setbacks—whether it was not knowing enough about technology when she started her first company or failing to raise capital for a new venture.
Speaking on the This Is Real Leadership podcast, she shared that she didn’t see her failures as damaging. On the contrary: “I don’t think I would have succeeded without mistakes.” Even though she works with risk by choice, it’s all part of her pursuit of true innovation.
As for the music rights issue in my book? I’m glad I was given the opportunity to correct my small mistake before it became a bigger mistake. As I continue my writing journey, I know there will be more bumps in the road, despite my best efforts. I refuse to fear them.
When I look back at my experience at that first writer’s conference in LA, I realize that the shame of that mistake has faded, while my pride in how I handled it remains. I didn’t make excuses. I took responsibility, learned from it, and moved forward.
Looking back at what I knew then compared to what I know now, I can confidently say I’ve come a long way. I’m still climbing the mountain, but I can also look back and admire how far I’ve come.
As we head into the new year, my wish for all of us is that we continue to embrace the courage to learn from our mistakes. May we only grow wiser, without the shame.
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About Jessica Lauren Walton: Jessica is a communications strategist, video producer, and writer in the U.S. defense sector. She has written articles on a range of security and mental health topics and conducted interviews with military leadership, CIA officers, law enforcement, psychologists, filmmakers, and more. Jessica recently completed her memoir about her experience as an American woman struggling with mental illness while trying to get into Israeli intelligence.
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