Writer Unboxed

Over the weekend, in the collectibles section at a used-book sale, I came across a volume whose dedication contained this quote: “There is a moment of profound discouragement which succeeds to prolonged effort; when, the labor which has become a habit having ceased, we miss the sustaining sense of its companionship, and stand, with a feeling of strangeness and embarrassment, before the abrupt and naked result.”

If not for the archaic language, these words could have been uttered by just about any writer I know. But in fact they’re part of the foreword to the epic poem “Lucile” by Owen Meredith, first published in 1890.

After a four-year hiatus, I have a new book coming out. In two weeks I’ll be digging out my good clothes (if I can remember where I stashed them) and putting on lipstick, going out to meet the public and introduce them to my latest creation.

This is supposed to make one feel celebratory, not queasy. But book publicity is a weird concept for most writers. Think about it. We toil in isolation for months if not years, listening to the voices in our heads, becoming their custodians and their champions. We proceed in states ranging from the occasionally euphoric to the deeply discouraged to the philosophically resigned, often in fits and starts and with little input or encouragement from others. When we finish, the result is seldom what we hoped it would be, though the journey has taught us things about ourselves, and the world, we could never have learned in any other way.

If we’re lucky enough to have a publishing deal, the manuscript soon disappears into the maws of editors, publicists, art and marketing departments to be prodded like a beauty makeover contestant, having its stray hairs tweezed and its cheekbones accentuated. In the meantime, we’re still at home in our pajamas with our hair unwashed, listening to a whole new set of voices.

Then, eventually, it arrives: the pub date. We emerge like bats from our caves, blinking into the light. We dig around in our closets hoping to find something that still fits, brush off our rusty social skills, and travel to bookstores to shake hands, read from our work, sign books. We’re grateful to our readers but also slightly afraid of them. They have regular jobs, “normal” lives. They know how to make small talk. To them, books are instruments of pleasure, not life or death. For the most part, readers, it’s useful to recall, are much less judgmental than we writers are of ourselves.

I don’t know what kind of book launch events they had in the late 19th century, but I’ll bet Mr. Meredith was able to put aside his feeling of strangeness and embarrassment, dust off his cravat and his spats, and sally forth in support of “Lucile.” I find it comforting to know that writers’ attitudes about their work have changed so little in the past hundred years. When I’m up there in front of my friends and readers, ill at ease in the spotlight after such a long time in the dark, I’ll remind myself that I’m in good company. And when people approach me to say “Congratulations,” I might actually manage to breathe, to smile, to give thanks for the product of my efforts, abrupt and naked as it may be.

Marsha’s new book Heartbreak Town is due out June 26, and is available now for pre-order at Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com.

Trackback URI | Comments RSS