“Give me a cheer if you’re queer!”
The MC is casting his eye down on the front row as he makes his introduction, looking for good targets for crowd work. I am in the front row. Not only that, I am directly in front of the mic. Prime seats. I put us there. Usually, I’m a linger-at-the-back kind of audience member, but tonight, I’m with two very funny people and I want at least one of them to be picked on. And sure, if I’m also part of that process, I wouldn’t mind. I can be the butt of the joke for a little bit, as long as the jokes are nice and about me and flattering and not at my expense and also making me look cool. I like attention, as long as it’s the good kind, the kind that leaves me glowing with validation. I like applause, as long as it’s for something I’ve said. Call me insane, but I like things that make me feel good and I don’t like things that make me feel bad. I’m different that way.
Anyway. I am the second person to be picked. I do a mediocre job - never been funny on demand, unfortunately. The MC asks me what I do and I proudly tell him, “I’m a writer,” because I am, and because I quit my job in February, so there is no possible further caveat. He asks me what I write, I tell him, “novels,” which isn’t fully true, but it’s too long to explain - and then my friend jumps in to inform him I have a book coming out this Thursday. Round of applause. It’s for me, but I start to sweat, becuase now that I’ve got it, I don’t actually want it. I’m asked to describe the book, so I do: “Oh, it’s like a feminist version of black mirror, it explores all the terrible consequences women face just for existing and envisions a world in which there are no consequences at all, even for women who do bad things…” I trail off, becuase I can see from the MC’s face that they’re wondering how on earth they can make a joke out of this. I realise I’m being a bad audience member - one of the ones he’ll regret picking on. This didn’t turn out how I thought it would.
“Are you feeling nervous?” They ask, mic outstretched. I’m one pint deep. My armpits are damp.
“Not at all.” Another answer that isn’t fully true, but there’s no time, no time, he’s moving on and thank goodness. My friend who is picked after me does brilliantly, - perfect delivery - drawing big laughs from the crowd. He asks her what she does and she makes a documentary about tomatoes sound like the funniest thing ever. She makes the MC’s job look easy. I take her hand afterwards and beg her to do stand up. I could listen to her all day.
Like a lot of people - a lot of creatives - I have an image of how things could go in my head. In these versions of events I am flawless, funny, beautiful, effortless. I break records, I astound, I am the centre of the universe over and over again. I sell more copies of my work than anyone thought possible. In two or three months before publication day, these take on darker tones. I am accused of bad things. I am dubbed as the greatest failure of the industry. No one comes to my book launch. The reviews are scathing, terrible, awful, abysmal. I am the centre of the universe and the universe hates me.
I call this ‘pre-launch anxiety’, the frantic count down towards publication date, which is itself more symbolic than anything else. The book is usually not immediately available in stores (it takes a few days or weeks), reviews have already come in, preorders have already gone out. The most significant part of the process has already happened, yet the countdown to launch is laden with the weight of a writer’s hopes and dreams and anxieties.
Pre-launch anxiety has no set start date - for some it can come a day or two before launch, for others (me) it begins months beforehand, when reality starts to sink in that soon anyone - theoretically, everyone - will be able to hold your work in their hands and judge it however they want. We cannot control how people will interpret and respond to our work, and we certainly can’t (shouldn't) respond to the responses. Releasing a book is a strange experience - as exhilarating as it is vulnerable, as egocentric as it is humbling. There is no way not to take things personally, and yet none of it is personal. The brilliant editors, publicists, marketers, agents, copy-editors, typesetters, proof-readers, designers, etc etc etc who lay their hands on the thing you have made are also laying their hands on thousands of other books, managing hundreds of other neurotic authors, publishing staggering numbers of books in every genre imaginable. Their work is invaluable, and if they gave us the level of validation we writers in the throes of pre-launch anxiety needed, they wouldn’t be able to do their jobs. And yet as the writer, all we see is ourselves, our work, and the way others are treating it. If you’re lucky, the process is affirming, and if you are not, the process makes you want to peel your skin off and wear it as a shroud.
Aside from wanting to wear your own skin, pre-launch anxiety typically can include:
hating your work on a deep and visceral level, and cringing when you find yourself needing to talk about it. (See also: dreading being asked the question, “So what’s your book about?”)
sending tediously long emails to your editor (sorry Amy) explaining things that don’t need to be explained, asking questions that don’t need to be asked
saying things like, “Let me know how I can help!” which is code for, “Tell me how to make people buy my work.”
checking Netgalley and Goodreads reviews a…shall we say ‘healthy’ amount and only focusing on the bad ones
somehow forgetting good reviews exist, and being surprised by them
wondering why no one else is treating launch day with the gravitas and solemnity that you are. Don’t they know how momentous, how gargantuan this is? Don’t they know that the earth itself will momentarily pause its revolution around the sun in order to tilt its head and listen to the moment the eve of the launch becomes the day of the launch?
wondering why the good reviews aren’t listed first, tbh. What is this bias? This slander? This campaign to tank a vulnerable little writer who simply yearns to tell stories?
mistaking professionalism for people hating your book!
thinking about what you wanted to say when the MC of the queer comedy night asked you if you were nervous. Which was: at this moment, no. At this moment, sitting in this chair with damp armpits, I do not feel nervous about my book coming out. I feel a kind of wild joy soaring through my body like blood, a delicious, invincible feeling that makes me want to reach back through the past and pull my youngest self in for a hug, and whisper to her, Hey, do you know what you are capable of? Do you realise you’re literally doing the thing you’ve dreamed about ever since you learnt the word ‘writer’? My darling, you’re here, you’re here, you’re here. But then yesterday morning when I was frying an egg a thought suddenly dropped into my head, a thought that went a little like, Hey, people might not like what you’ve written, and there’s nothing you can do about it. And what could I do except add some avocado to my plate?
mistaking professionalism for people loving your book!
repressing the urge to go, “well if you like [insert vaguely connected topic] then you’re going to love my book! It’s about…”
hearing that someone liked what you wrote and going, “Ok, but which bit exactly? What was your favourite line? What did you think of the ending? Did the prose make you feel as though you were a body suspended in time and space, floating through centuries of collective memory and dreams from those who came before us, and will come after us? Did you weep with joy and then sorrow and then joy again, and then did you press the work into the hands of your loved ones emphatically, earnestly, directing them to a cosy armchair and a little lamp and saying, ‘Here, sit and read this, and I will come fetch you in the morning,’ shaking your head gently, but knowingly, as you closed the door and left them to it?”
All this to say, things can be a little tumultuous before a book comes out. Writers can go a little into the deep end, which is usually why their publishers start every conversation with, “And how are you feeling?”
Not me though, obviously. I am calm. I am serene. Nothing but light.
A quick favour. I love writing these posts, and I intend to do them for free for as long as I can. If you enjoyed reading this, forward it to a friend (or three) who you think might like it too. It helps massively, because validation from strangers is truly the only thing that makes the horrors bearable for me.
Happy pub week!!! I can’t wait to have a copy in my hands 🩷