By Amy MacKinnon
I wonder if it's too late.
Galleys have gone out for review, been sent to booksellers for ordering, to friends and family to read. I want to pull them all back, re-pack them in their cardboard boxes and hide them away from curious minds. People will talk. They'll have opinions and thoughts -- not all of them positive -- about the story, the writing, me. Soon, very soon, the book and I will be judged.
Not everyone will be kind, though some will fall to the other extreme. I won't know everyone's motives. Reviews on Amazon and other sites will be precipitated by friendship, animosity, or true conviction. I won't always be able to tell the difference. Labels of mediocrity will sting worst of all. I despise average.
It's never bothered me to be judged by the way I look, my actions, gender, politics, my parenting, address, or religion. I don't generally care. I've been regarded as fat, ugly, poor, stupid, and cruel, all of which have been true at different points in my life. That's fine, I can accept those critiques just fine. I have been laid bare in my most primal state before a room filled with curious residents and not blinked. Childbirth is humbling that way. But to have my book reviewed publicly will be the most disconcerting experience of all.
I want to be the person who walks into the wind upright and steadfast. I want to be Teflon. I want to be above the fray of the naysayers and uglies. I want to be fierce. And I am. Much like Achilles on the battlefield, I am strong and sure for the most part, but this book of mine is my sweet, soft heel.
So how to cope?
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
By Amy MacKinnon