The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Read

I’m about to out myself as an avid Tumblr user, but I don’t think I’ll ever get past the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known.

There’s a specific sort of anxiety that can be associated with putting yourself out there, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to get past it. (In the same line, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to voice my discomfort as well as the original article did… That might be because this post doesn’t involve baby goats.)

I do want to take it one step further, though. Because I think there’s a specific sort of anxiety associated with 1) making yourself known, 2) accepting that you are now known, and 3) continuing to be a presence in people’s lives.

I have a point to make here, I promise. I’m not rambling about my anxieties because I decided to pay for a domain name instead of a therapist.

If you’ve been reading my blog posts recently, you know that I finished my draft of my (*fingers crossed*) debut novel. You know that I’ve done cursory edits, and you know that I’ve sent it out to beta readers. You also know that I’m not supposed to be reading their comments or notes.

Except (in a twist that will surprise exactly zero people), I’ve been reading them. I can’t help it. I’m addicted to knowing what people think about me. It’s mortifying in the worst way, and exhilarating in the best way. I shouldn’t be looking, but every single comment gives me the best and worst feeling, and I can’t stop.

It doesn’t hurt that the comments are overwhelmingly positive, with only minor adjustments here and there.

It’s going better than I could have possibly hoped for. People love my characters and they love my story, and I think that’s the best compliment a reader could give a writer.

But.

Like I said, there’s a specific sort of anxiety that comes with continuing to make yourself known. I made myself known to my readers and friends by sharing my book with them. I will continue to make myself known by sharing my future books with them. Somehow, that’s scarier than sharing the first book.

The first book was a leap of faith for both parties. I had faith my readers wouldn’t break my soul in two. My readers had faith my book would be decent. So far, both parties have exceeded expectations (if I do say so myself).

My book is good. My readers are good. This is good. Things are good.

So, how am I supposed to do this again?

How am I supposed to write a new book, from scratch, that lives up to the expectations I have created for myself. I’m not saying my first book is perfect–it’s far from that. But it’s good. It’s really good, in my own, bloated opinion.

So, again, how do I repeat the magic?

How do I strike gold twice? How do I get lucky with metaphors that work? How do I explain the mortifying ordeal of being a human through a fantasy world over and over again for the rest of my life? How do I make it mean something?

Worse, how do I write a sequel without the crutch I used in the first book? (Spoilers, but there’s a specific plot device that I used as a crutch to hook readers, and the end of the first book kicks that crutch straight into a fire.) Why did I do this to myself?

I’m a perfectionist at heart. Always have been, and likely always will be.

So, if my next book is anything less than perfect, and I have to re-subject myself to the continued Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, I might just keel over.

That’s the point, though. You don’t just get to be Known once. Being Known is a process, on repeat, over and over, until you die. Cheery, right?

Once my first book comes out, every subsequent book is going to be held against that story. Every action I make is going to be held against my previous ones. Every tik tok I make will be compared against my earlier ones. Every statement, interview, conversation, creation, project, blog post, EVERYTHING will be held against its predecessor.

I don’t know why that stresses me out so badly.

Maybe it’s because I know that no matter what, I have one shot at truly making it, and a million shots at blowing it.

Jeez.

I think, sometimes, I wish I didn’t have to be Known to be Published. Or Successful. But them’s the breaks, kid.

Anyways, thanks for listening to me ramble, Domain-Name-I-Purchased-Instead-Of-Therapy. I can’t imagine I’ll leave this post up after I get a publishing deal (unless I completely forget about it), so for now, the Blank Void of the Internet gets to listen to my worst anxieties about being a creative person. I love you, Blank Void of the Internet. Thanks for always listening to me.