Excerpt from "The Color of Your Dreams: Publish Your Damn Book Already"
I’m afraid of spiders and Steve Buscemi.
He’s a terrific actor and deserves every accolade he receives, I’m sure. But for some reason I have a strange reaction when he comes on screen, and I finally decided that I’m just afraid of him. It makes no sense, but there it is.
The fear of spiders is baseless, too. Some people have childhood stories of giant, hairy spiders dropping into their lap or crawling under their sheets one night. I see how that could traumatize anyone. I don’t have a story like that. As far as I know I’ve never been bitten by one, and unless you count panic-filled dreams where they’ve invaded my bed—I’ve actually awakened and torn off all the covers in search of them—the little bastards have never molested me.
But I’m afraid of them. Not “jump up on a chair and scream” fear, but a shuddering dislike, nonetheless. Seriously, I’ve often considered moving to Arizona for its climate, but have ultimately resisted because I don’t want tarantulas (or scorpions, another member of the arachnid family) in my house.
Fear is fascinating. If we’re to believe scientists, many of our fears are rooted in evolution. Since a lot of people share my dread of eight-legged monsters, it’s reasonable to think that spiders must’ve jacked with our ancestors big time. Over the millennia that transitioned into an inborn fear of spiders. Same with other critters, like snakes or things with sharp fangs. I get it.
But now explain our fear of letting strangers read our writing. What, did some caveman get all butt-hurt over a one-star review of his cave chronicles? Good ol’ Homo erectus came up with the hand ax and other cool stone tools, but he never got within 100,000 years of writing a memoir. Soiling yourself over a saber-toothed tiger is understandable. Being afraid of writing makes no sense.
And yet there it is. The fear lies simmering inside every writer. The ones who say they’re fearless are trying to impress you, but they’re liars.
The question is: Why? Why are we afraid? And what is it exactly that creates fear in even the most successful authors? Is it the writing itself? The act of composing? Are we stressed out over the creative process?
No. It’s not the act of writing that concerns us (although many seasoned writers will tell you they don’t really like writing; they like the results of writing, the finished product).
It’s the reception. In other words, we fear the response of readers.
Again, it makes no sense. Like the poor, innocent spiders that have never come within miles of us, we’ll never see 99% percent of the people who flip through the pages of our work. We won’t know their names, what they look like, where they live, their hygiene practices, nothing.
And yet they have the power to scare us through the simple act of perusing our product. It’s almost identical to the fear associated with public speaking. Standing up alone in a room? No problem. But plop one hundred strangers in chairs, facing you, awaiting your words? For most people trembling sets in, the mind goes foggy, the sweat glands go into overdrive, and the words either don’t come or they come in a nervous wash.
(Side note: This is one of the reasons some of us make pretty good coin with public speaking. People often are willing to pay well for something they themselves would hate to do. I talked with a guy who cleans residential septic systems and he makes a killing because few people want to suck out shit for a living.)
So, for creative people, it’s not the activity that terrifies. It explains why millions of people have dozens of stories or half-finished manuscripts lying around. Writing the words is easy—well, comparatively speaking. But showing those words to people, especially strangers, creates a panic attack.
And it’s not just a fear that someone will think the words are awful. I sat on several stories for years because I simply didn’t believe anyone would find them interesting. Then I published them and immediately received enthusiastic feedback.
Well, shit. Why did I sit on the damned things for so long? Because I’d read, re-read, and then re-read the stories so many times during writing and editing that they became stale and boring in my mind. But new readers were into them. And I have to admit, when I dug them out after ages in a file, they were fresh and interesting to me again, too. Honestly, I’d forgotten how one of them ended. You have no idea how funny it is to be surprised by a story that you wrote.
We worry that people will either harshly judge our words or just be bored by them—which, to me, is worse. And this anxiety creates a paralysis. The next thing you know, the words you labored over for weeks or months—or years—wind up hidden away in a file, and the only evidence we have that you’re a writer is your pronouncement.
So what’s the answer? Believe it or not, the age of online commenting actually helps. This sounds counterintuitive. You’d think a flood of people popping off about your writing makes it even more frightening, but the opposite is true.
Stay with me, here. It’ll make sense.
In the days before the web, book reviews and literary criticism were mostly reserved for the pros, or for whatever passed as professional. The critics for the New York Times, for example, were deemed experts in the ways of the written word, and their blessing or condemnation of a book spoke for us all, whether we liked it or not. Outside of newspapers and magazines, there really weren’t outlets for reviews. And that meant one bad review and you were screwed.
Sometimes I wonder how many fantastic books never got a real chance at success because the Times reviewer had fought with his wife that morning.
I’ve imagined writers in those days, sitting by the phone, waiting for a call from their agent, who would relay the news from the eight or ten primary critics. Their opinions were paramount. Talk about pressure.
Now consider the situation today. You release a book, and those same oh-so-important critics will spout off about it.
But this is critical: So will hundreds or thousands of other people. And, guaranteed, you’ll have people who hate your words and people who adore your words. You just will. Wanna know how I know? Take any book you like—any book—and go check out the online reviews. To Kill A Mockingbird, for example. Considered by many to be one of the top three greatest American novels ever. And it has more one-star reviews than you can imagine. That’s right, there are people who call TKAM shit.
(Although, granted, one of those one-star reviews was—if you’ll pardon the pun—a lark. The guy simply wanted to point out that the book never actually showed you how to kill the damned bird. Kudos to that sarcastic bastard.)
And why is this good news for you? Because it alleviates the pressure. Suddenly you understand that the months and months of work you pour into your novel won’t matter to some people, and they’ll trash your words regardless of what others think.
In other words, you’re gonna get ripped by some idiot out there. But Grisham, Rowling, King, Tolkien, Angelou, Faulkner, and even Seuss get shredded by someone. According to some accounts, Agatha Christie has sold more than a billion books, and yet there are legions of people who say her writing sucked. Sigh.
If you’re hung up on the reception of your words, you have to step back and recognize that we’ve entered an age where everyone is encouraged to comment on everything. On top of that, there are trolls in basements who are frustrated that their book wasn’t a hit and so they’re out for blood. You might just make a convenient target.
My books have received good, medium, and bad reviews. That’s because every book receives good, medium, and bad reviews. You’re only interested, though, in the people who enjoy your words, and you’ll write your next book for them. Trust me, they’ll eagerly await it.
Fear of acceptance is a natural pathology. People want to be liked, and that certainly extends to their creative side. Painters love it if gallery visitors rave about their canvas. Singers long to sell lots of records. Actors lust for the gold statue. But award-winners also receive their share of raspberries.
Don’t let your fear of the public’s reception to your work prevent you from getting it out there. If only a handful of people determined your fate, it would be intimidating. When millions of people sound off, it suddenly becomes background noise.
Put your head down, crank out your words, and say what you want to say without worrying about critics. You’re a writer because there’s something you want to say or a story you want to tell. We don’t write for reviewers. We write because we want to.
It's time you started writing and publishing. Get your complete copy of "The Color of Your Dreams" right here.