Dancing with myself in the mirror

I had the first reading and signing of my new book last week, and during the Q&A, someone asked if it’s at all scary to put my book out there for the world to read, knowing there are those who may not like it, and may not be shy about saying so.

In a word, yes.

I’ve always known that writing, at least in my world, is like dancing in front of the mirror. When I’m done, the only voice I hear saying either “What the hell was that supposed to be?” or “Wow, you are ah-MAZING!” is my own. Unlike a stage actor or a stand-up comedian, if my work elicits nothing but cricket sounds, I don’t know it. I’ve been a journalist for some 20 years, and during that time, I’ve had readers who weren’t hesitant to tell me an article stunk, or that they disagreed with my coverage of an issue. That’s entirely different. They were angry about the story itself – it wasn’t about me as a person.

But the book that a group of people carried out of my first book signing is about me as a person. It’s full of essays about my life, about my relationships, my struggle with infertility, growing older, self-awareness, family problems, weight problems, traffic and finances and cat hair. I’m not writing a story about the local city council race. I’m writing about me. And, here’s where things change drastically from my dancing in front of the mirror days: I’m asking people to write reviews. I’m on the stage now, under the spotlight. The curtain is up. What’s coming? Applause? Crickets? Rotten tomatoes and tin cans? So far, it’s all been applause, but I know there are those out there who probably won’t like it. I’m braced for that. I’ve already been asked why I went with something as old-school as essays when everyone else is writing erotica. Question asked and answered.

But this book, this collection of essays that give the reader warts-and-all glimpses of my life, is just how I write. It’s how I relate. It’s how I hope people will relate to me. Is it scary to think that people could read it and hate it? Yes! Feeling like someone doesn’t relate to you, especially when you’re hoping they will, results in the very essence of aloneness – that echoing feeling of being the only kid at recess without somebody to play with.

The counterbalance is, of course, that some people, dare I say most people, will relate to my book. They will see themselves in some of what I write, they’ll understand where I’m coming from, or they’ll find some interesting tidbit they didn’t know about one of the well-known writers I interviewed. My cousin Brian donated a copy of my book to his local library, and the librarian wanted to read it before she decided whether or not to put it into circulation. She read my essay about my frustrated devotion to Philip Roth, whom she also loves, and the deal was sealed. The book is now on the library’s shelves. Now that’s what I call relating.

The answer to my questioner, that night at my book signing, was yes. It’s scary to put my work on display, to open my life for so many people to see. But it’s the only way to get myself out there, to build a readership, to know that my next book will be eagerly anticipated, and to feel, to finally feel, that I’ve settled myself comfortably into being what I’ve always known I’d be: a writer.