“No name-calling truly bites deep unless, in some dark part of us, we believe it. If we are confident enough then it is just noise.” ― Laurell K. Hamilton
My first book (contract long expired) was published in 2011.
Like all new authors, I was in the clouds. The
entire experience, from finishing the novel to the offering of a contract, to
the first glimpse of the cover to the event—its
release.
Most authors may have much more confidence that I do. Feedback may not affect them. Bad reviews may glide off them like water on a duck's back, and good feedback may just be taken in stride.
Not me.
Oh, I got many wonderful reviews. Some cited good, strong positives about my writing as well as informative and appreciated
constructive criticism of the book’s weaker points. Most importantly, many took
my book seriously. My chest swelled with
pride.
But here's the kicker.
The weeds—those unavoidable yet necessary weeds
called negative feedback—cropped up in my lovely garden of praise.
In retrospect (you know how you remember the
harsh stuff more than anything else?), I think the worst hit to my pride was
for a reviewer to call the plot silly.
Ouch.
To compound the fracture of the embarrassment,
the reviewer's tone was—and how I hate this word—snarky. It made fun of the plot! To have my book
mocked in such a demeaning fashion was
hurtful, especially as I was a new author.
Welcome to the
world of thick skin development! Double ouch.
Oh, hey, I'm not pitying myself. I'll be the first to admit the plot
probably was kind of silly. I learned
the hard way—which I have to admit might be the best way—that plotting was not my strong suit in writing. I did have many strengths, but, alas, plot
creation might not have been among them.
Even this realization didn’'t discourage me. I'd
learn to put the iron to my writing weaknesses. To acknowledge those issues and work on them could and still can only improve my skills.
What did
bother me is that I took that particular weed and held it close to my heart,
clung to it and, for some reason, set it
as the standard for my self-confidence.
After that review, I even found myself warning
potential readers, Hey, the plot is pretty silly, just warning you. Or, Hope
you enjoy my silly little book. Yes! I even warned that my book was silly!
Tragically, I constantly referred to my book as silly. And I meant it. I really believed—because someone poked fun at my book—that
it was a piece of garbage.
Shame on me.
Recently, after the first year had passed,
after I'd resigned myself to having a silly
book to my name, after apologizing constantly for the book itself—I took a
long look at the story.
And you know what?
I cried
first, just from reliving the memories of writing it, the pride in being
accepted by the publisher, the thrill of it all. And, finally, I cried
because I'd be damned if I didn't see my baby through new eyes, and actually found myself admitting it wasn't such a bad
book after all. It had its good points as well as its bad, and I was sorry that
I'd spent so much negative time on
being embarrassed by it.
It was a first book. Some write perfect first
books. I did not. Yes, the silly plot hadn't miraculously changed in a year's
time. It was still there.
But I finally allowed myself the pride I should have had all along. I realized that the silly thing was to have judged and condemned my own work based
on one comment in one review. I'm not saying I should not have taken the feedback
seriously. I should. And still I do.
But I shouldn't
have lost my pride in my work—which put the shadows of doubt on any future
works and in my ability—based on one little neutron of negativity.
I'll always embrace humility in my work, but
I'll write to the best of my ability and I'll try to embrace my pride as well.
A happy medium of both, I hope.
So, my precious little book. I owe you an apology for
letting myself ever be ashamed of you. You weren't such a bad little book after
all.
No comments:
Post a Comment