…is often idea of other people looking at it. I do realise this is absolutely counterintuitive for someone who publishes their work.
Self-confidence, though.
I write under a pseudonym. Quite a few people in my Real Life ™ know about Ally (waves to those of them reading this!); but in my head, the pseudonym is a thin veneer of paper protection between the me who is trying go to Parent-Teacher meetings more often and not visit the shop in her slippers; and the me that likes to don my house-trousers at two in the afternoon and settle on the sofa to read or write queer novels featuring werewolves.
When we lived on Merseyside, we lived on a side-street just off the river Mersey itself, on the opposite side of the water to Liverpool. I am not a City Person and it was a Sacrifice For Love that I made when I was young and foolish. Mr AL has more than made up for my sacrifice by now – he found moving to the country a lot more traumatic than I found city life. In a village, if you put your washing out on the line, every single person in the vicinity will know that you have bright red BEST DAD IN THE WORLD underpants. In the city, you can’t hang your laundry out because it will absorb city-shmutz and be dirtier afterward than before you washed it. In cliche, in a village, everyone knows your business, but in the town, everyone ignores you.
So there are alleged pros and cons. I’m not sure the city/village cliche is true, though. Our city house was three stories high, with an attic window that looked across the river to the Liver Buildings, those iconic symbols of the city. They watch the big ships and the little ships go out on their adventures and welcome the sailors safely home again. That was one of the pros. As was the collection of dear friends and close family that we had within a half hour walk. The downside for me was feeling like a rat shut in a trap. For me, being on a suburban terraced street, I felt watched all the time. When you go out of the house on a suburban street of terraces, someone sees you. When you come home, someone else sees you. In your postage-stamp back yard, your neighbours overlook your Sunday afternoons. Traditionally, living in a village is supposed to be like that; but here in our village, it is more spaced out and I feel I have room to breathe. In the city, I felt squashed.
Writing is a bit like that, for me. When a new book comes out it sometimes feels as if I’m in one of those dreams where you’re standing on the village green with no clothes on and everyone is watching you—or walking out of your house in the city and the neighbours’ curtains are all twitching to see where you’re going.
This can be good! People can go Ooooh! You’ve lost weight since the last time you had this dream, how good you look! Or Yay! You’ve got to the Parent-Teacher meeting and you’re not wearing your pyjamas! Or of course they can laugh at the fact that you don’t shave your legs or your pyjamas have little unicorns on them.
I think the trick as a writer is to let both those things flow over you. It’s lovely that people like what you write. But once it’s written and in the public domain, it’s a thing on its own and you can’t let how readers interact with it affect you too much, because that way lies madness. It’s the ultimate in looking for external validation and that’s not a great mental health place to be.
So…I guess the hardest thing about writing a book for me these days is letting it go. Pushing it out the door with its lunch in a paper sack, making sure it’s got a waterproof in case it rains, waving it off on the school bus and trusting that it’ll be okay out there on its own.
As you may have noticed, I’m trying to be a bit more of a community animal recently. That has included blogging more frequently, more interacting, generally spending a bit more time interacting with both readers and writers. I’m enjoying it- I thought it might be awful, I’m a real recluse, generally speaking- but because it’s mostly online, if I get too overwhelmed I can run away and put a paper bag on my head and take deep breaths for a while if necessary.
As promised, this week I have an excerpt from The Flowers of Time for you. Set in the 1780s, in England and Northern India, the main characters are Jones, a non-binary archaeologist who has lived in the mountains for most of her life, and Edith, who is a botanical illustrator.
The last few weeks’ research rabbit-holes have been pretty varied. I’m still flailing around in the Himalayas and in eighteenth century India for Flowers of Time and on top of that I’m still fact-checking for Inheritance of Shadows. This is the stack of reading I took away on holiday last week.