Safety Not Guaranteed

(Alternate title: “Shalini’s Sunday Morning Pep Talk.”)

One of the reasons that it took me so long to publish a novel is because I was scared. I still am scared, on a very visceral level, every single day. I am scared of people not liking it. I am scared of being judged. I am scared I am not good enough. I am scared of bad reviews, poor star ratings, people snickering about me behind my back. I spent a lot of yesterday sick in bed because a side effect of an SSRI, and I googled, “how to deal with bad reviews,” a whole bunch.

I haven’t actually gotten that many bad reviews, I think because: 1) I targeted my book cover, my blurb, my content toward a very specific audience, and wrote to it in the best of my abilities. I am not trying to cater to Alice Munro fans or John Irving fans or Clive Cussler fans or George R.R. Martin fans. (I should disclaim that I am not a fan of any of those authors, because, duh, if I was, I would try to be, in some sense, writing to their audiences as well.)

I am trying to cater to men and women who love love stories, romantic tension, playing with the tropes of books or movies they’ve read and loved. Romance and chick lit readers are my people, because those are the books that I could read and reread without getting tired of them. For the most part I think I’ve succeeded.

And also, I think, 2) my book is pretty good.

This takes a lot out of me to say. You know me and my self-esteem aren’t the best of friends. Or maybe you don’t, but we’re not. I am trying to believe in myself more, though, because I’ve heard lots of writing teachers say, “If you’re not crazy about your writing, why expect anyone else to be?” Oh. Yeah.

I am pretty crazy about my own writing. I feel like a pompous ass saying that, but I’m going to say it until I don’t feel that way. I’m also going to say, “I deserve success,” until I believe it. It may take eighty years. I hope I get there with this one.

This morning I woke up with a renewed energy to not take SSRIs that make me sick, and also a stomach full of anxiety butterflies. I am dealing with them by writing to you, Sunday morning friends (or later, RSS friends), and by reading Martha Beck. I love me some Martha Beck. The thing I am discovering the most that she and other researchers say is something along the lines of, “The secret to _______ is happiness.”

The secret to finding your mate is to be happy with yourself first.

The secret to being successful is to be happy doing what you’re doing first.

The secret to being fit and healthy is to be happy with your body first.

The opposite doesn’t work. The secret to happiness isn’t success, or a thin body, or to find your soul mate. These are not the reversible chemical reactions, except perhaps that the secret to happiness is happiness.

Did you know all complex natural processes are irreversible?

So, as I was thinking about how to deal with bad reviews, whether I want to do this again because, like, two people said terrible things and dozens others said lovely things, is whether I was happy doing this. Am I happy writing these novels?

This is different than, “Is it fun?” or “Is it easy?” or “Are you a success?”

And yes, I am happy. I enjoy making ways to make my own stomach flutter. I enjoy finding new ways to increase romantic tension. I love writing dreamy men and women. (Wait until you meet my new guy, Wesley. *sigh*)

There, that’s it, in that dreamy sigh. When I think about what I’m doing, I’m happy. Not the result. The action. The irreversible reaction is building. It’s exothermic! Entropy is increasing, right this second, right here in my dreamy sigh!

And the other thing is: people were already snickering about me behind my back, saying mean things. I don’t know why, but that’s not really the point. The point is, whether I do this thing or not, it’s not going to affect how they think about me. I’m not trying to get those people to like me, because that’s an impossible task. I’m trying to be happy.

I am a people pleaser to the core, and I am, swear to God, a genuinely nice person. Mostly I’m shy and quiet. And I have a very thin skin, so it makes it hard to be bold and brave. But not everyone is going to like me. Not in my writing, not in my blogging, not in life. 

Safety not guaranteed.

Everyone gets bad reviews. (This is different than criticism. I really do want to improve my writing, or I wouldn’t have worked with editors or an agent or beta readers, or take to heart when people tell me something about my writing that resonates with me, and I go, “hmm, you’re right.” Who doesn’t want to be better at what they do? Wheezywaiter says it best, on why we need critics: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B5kPYor3zGw).

I’m going to write and write and write, and (I hope) get better and better. I’m sure I’m going to get more readers, and also more people that don’t like me. And I’m sure I’m going to get my ass kicked.

Safety not guaranteed.

I’m going to do it anyway, because it makes me happy, just like I write here for that very same reason.

I guess that the irreversible chemical reaction is already taking place. Stand back, it might get dangerous over here.