by Jill Riddell
It’s common to oversell both how fabulous it will be to publish your writing and how cataclysmic. We worry that people won’t like what we wrote; in fact, they may hate it and say so with well-composed, snarky glee. We fear critics have the power to convince others (many, many, oh so many others) that they should love us much less or perhaps not love us at all.
The consequences for the release of one’s writing grow enormous as cartoon ghosts — the kind represented as thundercloud gods with glowering expressions.
If you catch yourself in the midst of catastrophic thinking, it can be oddly calming to remember that some authors live in countries where they literally risk death by publishing. In some places, it’s entirely possible a stranger will pound on the door, shake a copy of the publication in the author’s face, and execute them.
You are not that person. If you’re reading this, you live someplace where the internet isn’t censored and your access to it isn’t restricted. The odds are excellent that when your book is done, you won’t be killed for what you have said.
I’m not saying this to make you feel your work is inconsequential—but to recognize that it might be, and that’s a good thing. You are very lucky you live somewhere where you get to make things that don’t matter all that much.
Like all art, your book is in some sense extraneous. Not the cave wall, but the drawing of an ibex on a cave wall. A book is not lentil mash; at best, a book is a pan of brownies.
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