It's done! (Confessions of a recently published author)
A post-novel post
Ok, it’s done. Or as done as it’s going to be, for better or worse. Off into the ether of publishing (at least until someone points out another typo to be corrected). Launched out into the world, onto the shelves of bookstores. Finding its way to readers.
A writer friend asked me if I felt bereft, what she called that “crazy empty feeling you feel.” I don’t, but I suppose I should. I love my characters to bits. I’ve been living in their heads for years, joining them on beach walks and drives around the Vineyard, sharing meals (writing about a lobster roll is the next best thing to eating it), experiencing their joy and sadness, the ups and downs of their friendships—and finding love.
Others ask if I feel happy, thrilled. (Yay, you’re done!) I do feel happy, mostly, especially when I get that lovely ego-feeding positive feedback. A wonderful review in the MV Times. A congratulatory text or an email from a friend.
But I also feel naked. Writing a novel is a private, intimate experience. I magpie my life (and my friends’), add a dose of imagination, and let my mind somehow spin out a story. My characters are me, and not me, their experiences mine, either in reality or in my head. By publishing a novel, I’ve set myself up to be judged. It doesn’t help that I let the one negative Amazon or Goodreads review outweigh—ridiculously—a dozen glowing ones. (And talk about naked, don’t get me started on book talks and other public events. Kudos to those authors who love doing that; it ain’t me.)
I totally get why writers will work on something for years, even decades, and never finish. It’s safer that way. Every sentence, every scene could be better.
There’s a pleasure in writing for yourself alone. Why finish? The world doesn’t need another novel. But then I remember that my books make people happy. They’re a mini-beach vacation, delivering a temporary escape from everything that’s going on in the world. The reassurance of a happy ending, guaranteed.
Lastly, being done means I’m free. Free to think about what I might write next. I could change genres. Write historical fiction, non-fiction, a cookbook, a book for kids. Try my hand at short stories. Or stay in my lane with a fourth novel with an entirely new set of characters—or bring Nate and Sky and Remy and Jake and Whit and Aly and their friends back to life. Anything. My imagination is no longer bound by the constraints of the story and characters I chose four years ago. It’s liberating—and scary. But I trust that the Vineyard, my source of inspiration and creativity, will tell me what to write next.
(T. Elizabeth Bell’s third novel, Sheepish, is available at Edgartown Books and Bunch of Grapes on the Vineyard, online through Bookshop.org (supporting independent bookstores) and Amazon, and through local libraries. For more, please follow me on Instagram @tb.dc.mv and Facebook @telizabethbell, or check out my website www.telizabethbell.com.)
I can’t WAIT to get to Edgartown Bookstore and buy a copy. I was the one who asked if you felt bereft and I am glad you don’t feel it. It’s this weird unfocused and unpleasant feeling when you should be on top of the world. Also, your book isn’t real unless you get at least a few negative Goodreads reviews, at least that’s what I tell myself. I gave myself a negative comment peptalk once by looking up one of my favorite mysteries at the time, which was The Lonely Bones, a massive critical success and bestseller, and read all the many negative reviews. That put things in perspective.
Although I have only written nonfiction (so far), I really get the sense of feeling naked, exposed to all sorts of criticism which might be unfair. I not only agonize over a negative review, but over a negative comment in an otherwise positive one! We, as writers, seem to be built that way. But it's essential to see the good we bring, the emotional relief and even joy to readers. Enjoy the victory of completion and let your imagination roam! Congrats.