The only thing harder than writing a novel is telling people you’ve written it.
My self-talker blabs in my head incessantly, questioning why I think I should write anything in the first place, much less 300 pages all in one document. I’m trying to train my self-talker to behave. To say nice things or nothing at all. So far it hasn’t worked. When I try to write, my self-talker says things like “What’s up on Facebook? Who had parties and didn’t invite you? Where are people vacationing today?” I don’t think these things are so bad. After I find out who had parties and what the weather is like in England, I see which dogs dressed up for St. Patrick’s Day and who hiked some pretty trails.
This investigating takes time – time away from writing. So in a sense these innocuous suggestions by my self-talker are sort of bad. But they are not the worst things that come out of the self-talker’s mouth. “Trite. Confusing. Stupid,” the voice in my head says as I read the words I’ve written. “You suck. Go back to Facebook,” it bellows.
It’s hard not to listen. Somehow I managed to tune the self-talker out long enough to write a novel. And rewrite it. And proof it. And rewrite it again.
I thought that was the hard part. I mistakenly hoped that once it was finished, someone else would read it, like it and promote it.
Wrong.
I am the official promoter, and my self-talker is having a hey day. “Nobody wants to hear about this! Stop talking about your stupid book! Shut up!”
But I made the mistake of submitting “Making Arrangements” to Amazon’s Kindle Scout before I realized what a long shot it was to be accepted. So I’ve been blabbing for the last few weeks. I started by telling my friends I’d written a book. (Most of them didn’t know because my self-talker warned me not to set myself up for failure; if no one knew I didn’t finish writing the book, it wouldn’t really count as failure, right?) These friends are amazing. They were glad to spread the word, and told everybody they could think of, all without telling me to shut up once. I get emotional just thinking about it.
When I was writing my book, I reminded myself that “The Help” was rejected by 60 literary agents before finally being accepted by one. My self-talker shrieks, “You’re no Kathryn Stockett!” so loud I am shaking as I write these words. I know that, believe me.
But I remember another interview where the author was asked what made her book successful. The writer shrugged her shoulders and said, “I’ve got really exceptional friends.”
There you go.
No matter if my book is published or not, I’ve got really exceptional friends. And between the two, I’d definitely take the latter.
(If you want to read an excerpt and nominate “Making Arrangements” for Kindle Scout, go to ferrisrobinson.com or https://kindlescout.amazon.com/p/2NIJJ1MPR9C62 before April 9.