Living with a published book
I have had an interesting life event in the last couple weeks. I published the first book in the apocalypse series that I h
ave created. I’ve been thinking about it for 40 years.
I’ve been working on it for four years.
Now it’s out there. You can pick it up and feel its heft. You can fan the pages and smell the ink.
What do I feel?
Initially there was a mix of feelings.
Excitement. True, unmitigated excitement. To hold this thing in my hands that I had been thinking about for a long time was really satisfying.
Pride and satisfaction. That feeling you get when you put in the work and do the best you can do. The satisfaction of a long job brought to fruition successfully.
This lasted for a few minutes. And then there was the feeling of ‘Oh shit!’ now I have to get busy on the next one! Which is the helpful low-grade anxiety I live with in general.
Then, as much as I hung no expectations on this work, a little bit of fear crept in. What if they don’t like it? What if they don’t buy it? What if it fails? All of which I was able to shovel effectively into the corner because I have strong emotional intelligence and zero economic necessity at this point in my life.
And then there was a curious thing. After the initial novelty (see what I did there?) wore off I got a bit annoyed with the novel.
The best way I can describe it is that the novel was a like roommate I was trapped in a small room with for many months and I was really sick of their presence. I needed to get away from them. Their annoying habits. Their intrusiveness. I needed my space.
But, that aint gonna happen. Just because I kicked Mr. Novel out of my apartment doesn’t mean I’m not going to free of him anytime soon.
Wait, what do I call that? Personification? Personification of an inanimate object? Or would it be Anthropomorphism? That’s a mouthful. Either way, I need to infuse him with some sort of animus. The sonnavabitch slept on my couch for four years!
Now, even though he’s got his own place, I still need to support him.
He needs me to help find him a job, to find a place in the world. Because If I just kick him out and ignore him, he’ll die of starvation.
That’s the thanks I get? I poured my heart and soul into him and spent countless hours at the library with him and now he needs more attention? The nerve. The chutzpah!
Now I need to go talk about the bastard and sing his praises and justify his existence to strangers.
It’s hard to be a parent. The job never ends.
But, I guess he didn’t ask to be brought into this world, a weird expulsion of brainwaves from my fractured creativity. Did he?
It couldn’t be helped. I had no choice in the matter. Like an itch turns into an ingrown hair that turns into a boil inevitably to burst forth with whatever truth full of pus and bile there is.
It could not be helped.
Like Dr. Frankenstein we are compelled to live in fear of our creations.
Maybe I should have written a symphony. At least that audience is reserved and polite. What will these science fiction readers do? Will my poor man be swarmed by an angry crowd of introverts? Will they demand more? “Chris, we love this, but when is the overly-complex board game coming out? We have our own dice.”
The mind reels from the existential threats.
Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll tamp down the lid of my over-boiling teapot of a brain and just keep writing. One word at a time. Constructing the profane and profound in equal measure and ushering them gently out the door, my misshapen progeny, to find their way.
And this novel. (the first of five) This sullen roommate. I’ll grab it by the collar and show it around the town.
And if post-apocalyptic fiction is your thing – you can buy a copy of my work at BookLocker.com – just search for my name.