There’s a first time for everything, of course, and it’s usually terrifying.
A couple of weeks ago I made my first appearance as the program guest of a book club. As a chronic introvert, I’d been dreading it–not that I had any good reason to. I knew perhaps a third of the members, so I’d have a friendly audience. They’d all read my book, so I owed them a debt of gratitude for supporting my creative career. And I knew that this is part of the deal. You can’t expect to hole up and write and the world will love you in return. You have to get out there and engage.
As the day approached, I anticipated all the dreadful questions they’d ask: Are you Jane (the heroine of my story)? Is the mother your mom? How much of the story is autobiographical? (Answers: no, no, and none). In those 3 a.m. moments of peak rationality, I expected an hour-long assault in which the club members asked probing questions about the most personal parts of my creative life, or pointed out every flaw in my writing, every plot hole, every missed opportunity to create a memorable and worthy piece of art.
A lot of writers cope with imposter syndrome, that feeling that everyone else is a valid authority and you’re the only fraud. It’s rubbish, of course, but my brain resists persuading. That’s the problem with a creative imagination: It tells all kinds of stories. The same brain that crafts art out of nothing also can spin tales in which I am the underdog, only in my story the underdog never triumphs. The same spark that produces wacky adventures or thrilling suspense stories or haunting tales of loss, love, or regret also loves to craft epic horror sagas starring me.
And then what happened?
The day came. I drove up to the house.
The hostess welcomed me warmly, fed me a spectacular lunch, and ushered me into a cozy room full of smiling faces. “This is the first time I’ve done this,” I said. “I don’t have a program prepared. What questions do you have?”
Of course, this story doesn’t end with my being eaten alive. The book club members asked thoughtful and interesting questions, none of which assumed my book was a thinly-veiled autobiography. Much to my surprise, I actually had fun. The hour they’d set aside for us to talk flew by, and before I knew it I was signing books and saying goodbye to my old friends and to the new people I’d met.
Next time, maybe I’ll tell myself another story, one in which the underdog triumphs. I’ll give my readers a bit more credit and remember that if they didn’t like the book, they wouldn’t bother dragging me to someone’s house and feeding me lunch. They’d trash it over cocktails and move on to something else.
Creating any kind of art, whether it’s literature, fine art, music, dance, or any other form, will always be an intensely personal act, and putting art out into the world creates a vulnerability that gets my stomach churning. It may never get easier. But I’ll try to remember I’m charge of the narrative in my head, and that first draft–the one I came up with at 3 a.m.–is never as good as the rewrite.
Header photo by Marcelo Vaz on Unsplash.
