To Publish: Fear is My Co-Pilot

My second novel, Desire, will very soon be published by iUniverse—sixteen years after the publication of my first novel, The Florentine Papers. Though I don’t, at this writing, have the official publication date yet, I’ve finished final proofing of the galleys, approved the packaging, and the publishing wheels are in motion—not exactly past the point-of-no-return just yet, but approaching it at sobering speed…

My friend Nick called me the other day.

      “So, how are things going with Desire?” he said.

      “I am filled with dread.”

      “Why?”

      “Author’s remorse. I’m beginning to think that maybe this was a big mistake.”

      Nick thought this was me trying to be funny, and he laughed.

      “I’m not joking,” I said. “I have great trepidation.”

      “Why?”

      “Because this could be a disaster. An enormous public humiliation.”

      “Come on,” he said.

      “You don’t understand,” I said. “Yeah, you write a novel, you want to see it published, you want people to read it. But when the long-imagined moment arrives, suddenly the reality of that, and the consequences, become very intimidating.”

      “What consequences? That some people won’t like it?”

      “Not just some people,” I said. “All people. Everyone. Everyone who gamely picks up a copy and tries to read it. I have this overwhelming sense, or fear, that no one, to a person, is going to ‘get it.’ You see them all—friends, family, acquaintances, generous strangers—getting about 50 pages into the thing and thinking, ‘What the hell is this?’ Or just complete stupefaction: ‘Wha? Gah?’”

      Nick continued to laugh.

      “Yeah, I’d like to see that quote on the book jacket,” said Nick. “USA Today says about Desire, ‘Wha? Gah?’”

      “I’m serious,” I said. “Everything that I ever may have hoped for, career-wise, could be completely blown to smithereens. ‘Oh yeah, him: he’s the lunatic that wrote that unreadable book.’”

      “Well, that seems rather unlikely,” said Nick. “I think you’re a pretty good writer.”

      “That may be, at times,” I said. “But in this instance, it might also turn out that I’m completely insane.”

      “Well, I suppose.”

      “Think about it,” I said. “I mean, really. This book, this thing… the fact of the matter is, this is the product of someone who, for several years, spent many, many hours alone in a room. Many, many hours. Sometimes into the wee hours of the morning. Alone. In a room. Typing and typing and occasionally chuckling to himself. Doesn’t that alone sound slightly insane?”

      “When you put it that way,” said Nick.

      “I honestly think that the people I know socially will probably start avoiding me. ‘Oh, God, there’s the freak that wrote that ponderous, sententious monstrosity.’”

      “Wow,” said Nick. “Aside from you, I’m not acquainted with anyone who would use the word ‘sententious.’”

      “Neither am I, actually,” I said. “Which speaks to my point. I think that I may just be on a completely different planet, in a completely different solar system. I mean, totally whacked out. Reality-challenged. I’m going to spend the rest of the year thinking that everyone is looking at me funny.”

      “People always look at me funny,” said Nick. “It’s no big deal. You get used to it.”

      “And marketing,” I went on. “Setting about the marketing tasks for this… just thinking about it puts a knot in my stomach, makes me start to sweat. I can’t set up any readings for this.”

      “Why not?” said Nick. “You’re good at readings. You’re entertaining. You have to do readings.”

      “God, no, I can’t do it. All those people. I don’t want to see all those people.”

      “I think doing a reading and seeing no people would be worse.”

      “I might prefer it.”  

      “This is hilarious,” said Nick. “An author who hates his audience. ‘I don’t want to see all those people.’”

      “I don’t hate my audience. I fear them. Besides, something like this… people come out of the woodwork. I remember doing that first reading for The Florentine Papers, sitting there in Borders and looking up occasionally into the audience, and every time I looked up I saw a different face from the distant past. Someone I’d more or less, well, forgotten about. But there they were, like ghosts, standing there in the crowd looking at me and listening.”

      “What’s wrong with that?”

      “It was unnerving. Intensely so. You know, you don’t always leave things on necessarily good terms with all the people back there in your past. The last thing you want at a reading or book signing is someone coming up to you and saying, ‘hey, remember me, you two-faced sonuvabitch.’”

      “I think you need to get a grip on yourself,” said Nick. “You have to promote the book, you have to do marketing, and you really should do some readings.”

      “I’m going to have to be half-kicked in the ass to get out there and read from this book to a roomful of people. Lightly to moderately vodka’d.”

      “We can arrange that,” said Nick. “You know, anything I can do to help you with all this, I will. I’m happy to help.”

      “Maybe you can hide me,” I said. “I might want to go into hiding.”

      “Anything but that.”

      “I mean, what’s wrong with the Salinger approach. The Thomas Pynchon approach. Being reclusive, enigmatic. Not that I’m in that league or anything, but…”

      “Well, that’s an approach,” said Nick. “But then how will anyone know about the book?”

      “I haven’t figured that out yet,” I said.