So there will be reviews. People will read this thing.Why can't I feel just as I felt a few weeks ago when I loved this book. Why do I feel more naked now than I could ever be without clothes on. Why do I feel like I will never write something beautiful.
I take the books out of the shelf, the ones I love, other people's perfect gems. I arrange them next to my bed like something stolen and exquisite. And beside them I am nothing. Beside them my book is temporary and not made to last the distance.
He tells me my voice is 'samey'. He tells me I write too fast. All the passion that is there on the page escapes him because, I fear he is incapable of seeing passion. Still, I have no core. I am empty of heart. Inside is a hollow place that bad reviews tear through, making a noise like a little hum.
I will not read the reviews and this is why. The bad ones will beat at me like blunt instruments. The good ones I will not believe. I have nothing to hold me up through the next few months.
If you need me I'll be under the bed.
4 comments:
Oh shit ... it sounds very scary. I'm in the process of having my first book prepared for release in November, so your last two posts are really pertinent right now.
All I know is that Triptych is quite perfect and I'm glad to read your response to Melba's comment, that it is not the book you are talking about here. (Glad ... or apprehensive therefore? Dunno)
It is such an insular thing, writing. Talking or writing about your work, having others read imperfect copy, seems to make the manuscript bleed out the edges and fray its intensity. But you have to KNOW it works, yes?
Aghh. Horrifying. I agree with you re the reviews - don't read them if you are feeling this way - and tell your publisher/publicist not to drop links to them into your inbox like some kind of heart bomb. At least then you will have the choice.
Finally, I have really appreciated your posts and your honesty about the emotional ups and downs that come with writing the truth. Thanks.
(And as Randolph Stowe's Captain Midnight wrote in his harbourer's guest book, "I had a lovely stay but it was rather fluffy and dusty under the bed.")
Hey good luck with your first book. I hope it isn't as shattering for your ego as this book will be for mine. I had this same terror when Affection came out but I feel worse about this one as I have nothing to hide behind. Very little sex and the words are therefore naked on their own.
Hey Krissy, can I come under there and join you?
If it's a consolation, I count affection and Triptych as two of the books I would arrange by the bedside and feel that I couldn't write anything as beautiful.
All the best
Jesse xx
I agree with Sarah and am thankful that you choose to share this stuff on here, it is enormously helpful and fascinating.
And under the bed is a good place.
Post a Comment