It is a dream, this job. Seriously. I get
to make stuff up for a living. My brain can wander anywhere it wants to.
Sometimes it even comes back. Ha! I jest. What was I saying…
Oh, right. When people ask me what I do, I
mutter the word ‘author’ in an undertone, much the way one would say the words ‘drug
dealer’. Because this is SUCH an awesome job, that I don’t want to appear cocky
about it, don’t want the gods of fate looking down at me and saying “Oops, she’s
getting a bit big for her boots. Let’s do something about that.” So I mutter
and I deflect and I talk about how grateful I am, all the while thinking,
please, vengeful gods, don’t take it all away.
Because, you see, it really is a cool job.
But…
“So, what book is this you have coming out?
Three, right? Oh, you’re an old hand at this now.”
And I smile and I say yes and then I go and
lock myself in the room and cry from the sheer terror of it all.
Because the thing is, it’s still the same,
even three books in. There’s the day to day work, which, again, is totally
awesome. And yet, each morning I sit before my computer and feel the sparks of
fear erupting in my insides. What if today is the day that I forget how to write?
What if today is the day that those words simply will not come and that blank
screen just stares at me and stares at me until I am battered down into
submission.
How dare I do a job like this? I am just an
average woman from an average town. To get to do something like this feels like
the unlikeliest of mistakes. What if today is the day that the universe
realises what it has done, and it all goes away?
Then there is the book-out-in-the-word
thing.
My baby.
Out there.
All alone.
I confess that, for the most part, I try
not to read reviews as it seems like the most effective way to keep some
distance between me and the lunatic asylum. But, when I do read reviews, I will
scour (and I mean SCOUR) them for the worst they can throw at me. Even in a
sparklingly brilliant review, I will hunt for some meaty bit of criticism that
I can use to beat myself across the head with for days.
Yes. Yes, there is something wrong with me.
Then there are sales. Oh, god! You see, you
want good sales. Obviously. Your publisher has worked extremely hard and
invested an awful lot in your creation. You want to see that faith rewarded.
But then begins the insidious little thought - well, what if they are too good?
What if I can’t write another book that can sell that well and then the sales
plummet and oh-my-god-we’re-all-going-to-die-somebody-get-me-a-drink.
As you can see, I like to plan ahead with
my worrying…
I read somewhere recently that creative
types are the most prone to anxiety because their powers of imagination provide
a virtual trough of horror stories, projected apocalyptic outcomes, from which
they can select.
Yay!
But the thing is, this job I do, it falls
decidedly outside the realm of normal jobs. I get to make things up for a
living. I live three quarters of my life in a fantasy world and I get paid
for it!!! Yes, it is pressure filled. It is a job that involves making a
large percentage of your inner life public. You pour yourself out onto the
page, make yourself vulnerable for people to see. The best of writing comes
when what is on the page is more than words, static two dimensional characters.
We have to create people, and people have tragedies and pain, and when they
live that, we live that, and so sometimes that can make you more than a little
crazy. But this is not pressure like that experienced by a police officer on
the beat on a Friday night who has to insert themselves between two people
intent on killing one another. It is not pressure like a soldier who has to put
one foot in front of another, knowing full well that any one of those steps may
cause the ground to erupt beneath him and his world to end in a flash of light
and pain.
This pressure, the pressure that comes with
this job, it comes from being so damned privileged. From having been given an
opportunity to do what so many people dream of, and from wanting so very badly
to be worthy of that opportunity.
So, each day I take a few deep, calming
breaths. I remind myself that I have done this before. That I can do this
again. And I begin anew, each day striving to be worthy of the good fortune I
have received.
Seriously, I think that by book four, I’ll
have this thing down…
