It is morning, late morning that is. I have poured my first cuppa and fed and watered my one-year-old tuxedo cat. To say, “fed and watered him” makes it sound like he’s a cow in a barn but no, he just likes to be number one, the most important thing in my life. Amply attended, he wraps himself around the calf of my leg and purrs good morning. Now, I can sit down with the newspaper and phone to see what is happening outside this handcrafted environment I call home, or who may have reached out to me overnight. The newspaper snaps and cracks as I shake it open, which my self-important cat takes as a signal to hop up in the chair next to me and stare.
It is a wonderfully cool late morning as I glance out the window at the pleasant fifty-eight-degree day. I will soon have to say goodbye to the somewhat cooler winter mornings in Central Florida. It won’t be much longer before the red-faced summer sun peeks its head above the ridge of my house to warm the day. It is comforting to know the heat will hold off a bit longer. The morning’s coolness affords me the opportunity to begin my day sipping hot coffee, wearing a comfortable old sweatshirt and my favorite outdoorsy, long pants.
On this morning in particular, I need all the creature comforts I can assemble, coffee, comfortable clothes, cool weather, and rhythmic purrs from my tuxedo cat. It is a momentous day by new-author standards. I am about to approve the fully formatted, final version of my first fiction novel. Of course, this is not the first manuscript file I have labeled, “Final.” This one is somewhere around ninth or tenth. I have had to save the files as, “Final B,” then, “Final C,” and so forth. I lose count honestly. But this time I mean it. I am tired of arguing with my characters’ change of mind and methods, the change in scenes and scenery, and my own tweaks and twaddle. It’s time to let go.
My hand hovers above the SEND button and the portentous next step of my writing journey. I am about to send my approval of the most recent, final manuscript to my book publisher, and on into a cruel and unforgiving world. I naively thought when I finished my work, I could relax and enjoy it. I was wrong. This is simply the juncture between work and worry.
True, the work is mostly done but the worry is just beginning. It is a nerve-racking, thrill-radiating, ego-crushing experience, to share such an essential thing, to end my exclusive relationship with a thing I love. I have only shared snippets with my writing club and the soul of it with no one but the tools I used to create it.
I recently stood just inside the entrance of a Barnes & Noble bookstore. As I entered, I moved a little off to the side so no one would run into me, and paused. I slowly scanned the store and felt peace in the smell of fresh coffee and a few tables of polite, low volume conversation. Near a kiosk close to me, I saw a woman and her child chatting about a children’s book they were considering. They gave me comfort as mothers with their children always do. Then my focus expanded to sweep the 180-degree arc in front of me where all the “best sellers” sat proudly on well-organized tables with a plethora of signs all around, espousing the greatness of the story and the unmatched talents of its gifted author. I took a deep, tensile breath and tried to picture my novel just over there, on that table. I could imagine four or five stacks of my book, each about eight books deep, and on top of one stack would sit a vertical frame, holding my book as it stood proudly for all to see. I watched one store patron walk by without looking at my book. Then, two more walked by chatting endlessly, almost running over my table. I wanted to run over and catch an elbow to say, “Hey, my book is here. Take a look.”
Then, a tocsin sounded in my head, breaking the trance. The smoke of my visual quickly cleared, and a different thought arrived. “How in the …. is my book going to sell in the midst of thousands of other books, by hundreds of authorial virtuosi, assisted as they are by an army of co-writers, editors, artists, publishers, six-digit marketing budgets, and their loyal readers who clamor for more of their best-selling work?”
Then I remembered all published writers in all genres, from the greatest to the least talented, experienced the day they sold their first book. I wonder how John Grisham felt that day. Kristin Hanna? James Patterson, and others? All I can do is place myself in the game, somewhere along that talent line from the most to the least. I straighten up and assure myself that I will sell my first book just like they did. From there, who knows?
Still, I am a rookie at this writing and publishing business. I learn as I go. I thought the tough part was finding a story, organizing the scenes, getting it all down, and working purposefully through the hard work of revision. Now that I have arrived at the point of approval of the final manuscript, I feel a little like a soft-shelled, molten lobster. I thought I would be the courageous, hard-shelled, mature lobster, but my knees shake and my finger readies to point at my editor for the mistakes I am sure are in the manuscript.
Perhaps I left my courage behind. After all, one does not have to be courageous to write a fiction tale based on a combined formula of well-researched fact woven in with fiction, where no societal norm is challenged, no marginalized voice is empowered, and no complex or taboo theme is employed. Nonetheless, I am faced with the need of courage to proceed with publication.
I decide to search my values of honesty and authenticity. I feel that I have written both honestly and authentically. I have not borrowed more than a few conceptual ideas from other books, articles, and newspapers. I have researched the many factors that need to be grounded in factual truth. Next, I ask myself why I authored this book, what was my motivation? Was it to be famous? Rich? No, to both. I wrote it as an act of legacy to my family and a few close friends. I want to leave something of me behind; in this case, a bit of my imagination put to paper for the enjoyment of others so that one day, “My brother, father, papa, cousin, good friend wrote that,” can be said of me.
This gets me to the fundamental challenge, the fear of failure. What if my book is poorly received? What will all those people for whom I am writing think of me? I am relieved when I come to my own answer to that question. I have tried and failed before. I have learned from my mistakes, and I have survived each failure. Having moved forward from those unfortunate chapters of my life, I have been blessed with more success than failure, and retained the respect and appreciation of those who matter most along the way. Failure is never final unless one allows it to be. These thoughts prevail over the mizzle of hesitation that fear-of-failure had placed in my way.
Now returned to my desk and computer, I blow a breath that could have slanted rain, and ask, “Does it matter? Does it really matter if they like it or not? In the 84,269-word final manuscript, I have likely written twice that much, deleted, revised, rephrased, consulted scholarly books, suffered hours of restless half-sleep, and stumbled in midnight rushes to my notepad before thoughts were lost in a dream. So, isn’t that the win? Just getting it written?” I would say that it is a win of sorts – like a kiss on my cheek, an appreciative smile, and a handshake. But I would prefer a more exuberant win – a kiss on the lips, a bear hug, a high-five. I want to feel like the first-round draftee at the moment they are drafted, when their family springs to life, hands raised, congratulations shouted, hugs and kisses given all around. But in truth, I would be very happy with a sincere, less melodramatic response of, “I love it.”
I suffered similar anxiety as a poet, which I still consider myself to be. I started some years ago authoring verse for reasons that are still somewhat a mystery. The provenance of my poetry is a message I felt coming to me through the Holy Spirit. Indeed, most of my early poems were spiritual in nature, poems of God’s love, mercy, and grace. I was inspired by scripture, a grateful attitude, and my need for forgiveness. As I gained experience, I branched out to other poetic subjects and styles of expression. My basic spirit filled, rhyming iambic pentameter grew and matured through a variety of new-to-me poetic styles.
For example, after recent study of free-verse, I have come to feel comfortable in that space. It took three or four years of writing and study to learn to appreciate that style of literary surrealism as practiced by the mid-twentieth century New York School of poets that included John Ashbery and Kenneth Koch. I find joy in writing imitation poetry in their style.
I have learned how to use imagery, sound, line length, tone, and diction. My first audience was my wife, then other family members, and then a few friends. Last year, after self-publishing four books of poetry, I built a creative writing blog for poetry, essays, sermons, and my most valued aphorisms. The blog now reaches around one hundred people, most of whom are strangers. Each stage of growth required the courage to keep moving from the first poem I read to my wife to the last one I published on my blog just yesterday.
Along the way, I have been both hurt and tearfully grateful for the feedback. I have been rejected by countless journals and on-line publications. I have also been heart warmed by tales of how one reader or another experienced exactly what I was writing about and how grateful they were to see their experience poetically presented. My poetry skills are still a work-in-progress. My instinct is that they will always be a work-in-progress. Precious few poems come out initially as a finished product. Some poems take weeks, others months, or even years – and others get the axe after much contemplation.
In publishing my poetry, I learned to conquer the same fears I feel as a new novelist. In fact, I can bring much of what I learned as a poet with me to this new genre, not in the skills per se, but in the experience. I am aware some will buy my novel and enjoy it. Others will read the cover and decide to pass. Some will look forward to my second novel; many will not. The good news, at least from a poet’s perspective, is that one reader with a smile and delighted eyes, is worth a hundred blank stares. I can do that, can’t I? I can delight at least one reader somewhere among a hundred blank stares. At either end of the scale of reader justice, I will just ignore the “hallelujahs,” at one end and the “yuks,” at the other. Neither are being completely honest.
I am now back to my hovering finger and the keyboard begging me to hit the SEND key and free me from this yoke of delay, deferment and deferral that lingers under my frozen finger. Like fuzz, it is weightless and I can’t force it down. My inner voice reminds me it is time to let go. Use the courage I have so painstakingly earned, have faith, and hit the button.
Pause . . . hover . . . pause . . . finally, I release my courage infused finger . . . CLICK!
The work done, the worry mostly assuaged, I realize that every published writer, even the most prolific among us, must accept the risk of rejection. As an aspiring author of fiction, I have learned to accept this emotional risk as part and parcel of the effort to move my life forward.
The subplot of this story goes back to the “why” I chose to author a novel, and thus, why it is worth the risk of rejection. I am writing as a legacy to my family, and they are worth that risk. Although I want to hear from every reader, I know that any rejection I experience will be from those who matter the least. I am confident those in my life who matter most will be proud of my effort, if not the work itself. To the extent the work may be acclaimed, I will appreciate it as a second helping of deliciousness – appreciated but unnecessary.
Ronald Whetsell's Creative Writing and Poetry Blog 