I sent advance review copies of my newest novel, Seeing the Crooked Lines, to about 45 people who had registered on this website.
I got three brief polite replies.
I wasn’t expecting a flood of responses. It’s a bit early for that. People need time to read the book. It won’t be published until October 30th, more than a month away. Plenty of time. I get it. I can wait.
But I admit I was a little disappointed. You give people something you think is a gift, you expect some sort of acknowledgement.
I did some research on this, and discovered this kind of low response rate is common. It’s not personal. People are busy. And many don’t see a free book as a gift. It’s more of a burden. They have to reserve time to read it, and time is valuable. And some of them might not like it, so now, you’ve not only stolen their time but you’ve made it unpleasant.
Still, when you spend hundreds of hours outlining a novel, sweating out the creation of prose, then editing iteratively to get it all polished, you do expect folks to acknowledge your effort when you share the results of your labors. It’s human nature. This is something I am learning to manage more gracefully as time goes by.
Any writer who says they don’t care about what readers think of their work is lying to you. Of course they do. Otherwise, they wouldn’t go to the effort to write and publish their stories. And it’s a terrifying experience. You craft what you think is a good story, throw it out to the world, and have no idea what kind of reaction it will provoke — or even worse, if you’ll receive any kind of reaction at all.
Sometimes I feel like I’m just shouting into the void, and don’t even hear an echo. On the other hand, no one owes me a response. No one owes me feedback, or suggestions, or commentary on my work. They aren’t obligated to leave a review or even a simple star-rating on Amazon or Goodreads. And they certainly are not required to read anything I publish. I keep reminding myself of this reality.
Authors who live solely for accolades from slavishly devoted fans aren’t really writers — they are no better than the so-called influencers on social media who record themselves and post solely for the dopamine hits they receive from the likes and subscribes, and from the reinforcing comments they generate. The content itself doesn’t even have to be any good — as long as it goes viral and generates a lot of traffic, it’s a win.
I don’t want to be that kind of writer. I don’t want to be dependent on others for my own self actualization. That’s a bizarre form of addiction, and I have enough vices already, thank you very much.
When I started to develop Great Purpose, I did so because it was it was something I felt I had to do. I’d always dreamed of writing a novel, and as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized I have only so much time on earth to do it. Now or never — truly, that was what motivated me to begin. And when I finished, the feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction was nearly overwhelming. Publishing the book was a reward in itself — even if no one read it.
Since then, the extremely positive reaction, so far, has been both surprising and gratifying — but also, I must admit, a little disturbing. The first dozen reviews on Amazon were all 5-stars and gushing with praise. I figured I’d get a few 3’s and 4’s, at least. I’m sure I will as more people read it. But I would be lying if I told you that it wasn’t a real thrill to read the initial enthusiastic endorsements. And that is the disturbing part — when you read positive reviews, you begin to forget why you wrote the book in the first place. It’s wasn’t for the praise and accolades. Those are nice, when you get them, but the reason a true author writes is simply because he or she must do so. They cannot imagine ending up on their deathbed looking back, full of regret that they did not take the time to do that One Creative Thing. At least, that was how it started for me. I have to keep that memory intact, and remind myself about what made me start writing in the first place.
So, when I shout into the void, I need to keep that thought in mind. I wonder: if I was the last human on earth, would I use any of my time to write? If there was no audience, would I publish anything?
I think I would.
Because ultimately, my main audience, if I’m completely honest, is me. I find writing, by itself, to be both enlightening and entertaining. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve laughed or cringed at my own prose, or how often it provoked sadness and tears. Writing, for me, is a deeply emotional experience. It teaches me things I didn’t know, about the world and about myself. And that is why I do it.
The narcissist influencers on TikTok wouldn’t post anything if there weren’t any people reflecting their ego back on themselves. And there are writers, I am sure, who publish purely for the ego boost they get from admirers. I don’t want to be one of those people.
So, shame on me, for ever thinking I deserve anything back from the void. It’s nice when I do, but that’s not the reason for shouting. Nor should it ever be.
I’m simply grateful for the opportunity to share what I create, and I’m humbled that, so far, people seem to appreciate the effort.
Now, back to work. The outline for The Fire We Carry beckons.
