It has always been my dream to become a published author since the very first time I handwrote my first manuscript on a long sixty leaves notebook way back in 2010. I could almost picture the scenes that had formed in my head back then of me in front of hundreds at my book launch, being gazed upon by adoring fans and critics who already have had their fill of my literary masterpiece and despite pointing out a few potholes, could not help but marvel at my incredible penmanship and exquisite storytelling. I imagined in this make-believe situation, I would be dressed in a plain t-shirt and jeans, looking as simple as Mark Zuckerberg on his Sunday best, with my glasses resting atop the bridge of my nose in my professor-like fashion as I feigned surprise at how much love I was getting for my obviously awesome writing talents. There may have also been a couple of celebrities and dignitaries present as well and I, the center of attention, would then be ushered to the center stage to talk about my inspiration for writing this story; the eyes and ears of the hundreds of fans all eager to hear the profound truths that spurred my literary genius.
If I was being honest, maybe the scenes of my book launch were not as over-the-top as I have described above, but I did know for sure that I wanted to be a huge writing deal the minute I finished that draft in 2010. I was not just confident in my skill as a storyteller but was also sure that there was something about the way I crafted words that nobody else I knew or had read seemed to have. I believed I was special. Trust me, that self-belief was just as vital to my desire to eventually work towards publishing my first novel ten years later as it was detrimental to my understanding of how to deal with the silence of indifference that came with being a writer.
Personally, I believe all writers are egotists. No offense to anyone who writes and thinks differently but if that is the case, then you just proved my point. The truth is, as writers we tend to have a bloated sense of self-importance, all because we believe that we perceive the world differently than most people. And I say this because I know for a fact that as a writer even worse than heartbreak or sawing off a limb is having your work read by someone who “just doesn’t get it”. Indeed, as writers, we are almost always the pioneers of “objective criticism”; however, when confronted by the sort of objectivity that comes in the form of an indifferent reader, we are rarely ever prepared to deal with it. So, a lot of times we tend to share our stories or poems or write-ups with the world with a stiffened upper lip of defiance as we keep a bold face, expectant of those readers or group of people who would, for some weird reason we could never fathom, “not just get it”.
Ideally, someone not getting whatever message you were trying to convey in your work as a writer should not even be an issue for you and initially, it doesn’t seem to be. In fact, our conscious self is likely to brush it off as nothing and we instead focus on the positives, or some aspire to perspire shtick. But unfortunately, the secret that we writers know too well is that our conscious selves are not what we are often worried about, nay, our subconscious selves –the deep well of inspiration and imagination that we most often draw from– is what worries us. It is this part of our psyche where the dreams of becoming New York Times best-selling somethings are founded, formed, and groomed by not just our own self-belief but the validation and understanding of the thoughts and ideas our works supposedly imbibes in others.
Thus, in this part of our subconscious, the ruminations of an indifferent reader who simply “doesn’t get it” does more damage to not just our ego and self-belief but also to our sense of self-worth. Therefore, to ensure that we are able to stop this pest-like feedback from eating away at the fiber of all that our self-belief has built, we actively set up mental barricades that we hope will help us combat them. We say things like “Well, art is subjective…” or “My type of writing is just not for you...” or “Different strokes for different folks”. And all of these may be true in the general sense of how art can be perceived but I daresay that as writers, we rarely believe them even though we are more eager to use them as mental blockers for what we think is unnecessary negative reinforcements.
And maybe finding a way to block these negative thoughts that chirp away at our self-belief is in some way a good thing, but being someone who has, for the longest time, been so eager to have a work of mine published in an official capacity, I must say, looking back, I think these blockers tend to do more harm than good. For one thing, they are quite porous in their defense. Yes, you can use all the variations of the “different strokes for different folks” rhetoric but deep down we all know that for an art form that is as diverse and unique as writing, the universality of how words can be an indubitable force for change and revolution in the world is not something we can shy away from. Hence, when we write, barring the criticism we may get for the structure or balance of our ideas and thoughts, we [as writers] all hope that our words resonate with not just those who will be in awe of our mastery of the art but also those who may not necessarily fancy our style but still respect the effort. Simply put, for a writer it feels much better to have someone read your words and criticize them than to read your words and “not get it.” The former could likely indicate a polarity between the ideas your words portray and the biases of the reader, whilst the latter is just plain old indifference – nothingness. And nothing hacks away faster at a writer’s self-belief like the ax of a reader’s indifference.
It’s been about two months since I published my debut novel “Heartbeat” and despite getting great reviews from mostly friends and a few acquaintances, it is still hard to understand why I feel devilishly haunted by the silence of some reader’s indifference. Of course, I understand that as a new author, it is perfectly normal for me to be anxious to know what people think about my book, but as opposed to the fairytale imaginations of my literary genius already being lauded even before my book launch, in reality, I am more crippled by the fact that I need to actually ask for such insights from readers as opposed to having such information offered to me on a platter. I thought I was special.
However, the bulk of my worries do not only stem from the silence of indifference but from the truthful realization of my own answer to one very simple question: “what would you do after you have read a really good book/novel?”
My answer: “I’ll scream, shout, tweet, and talk about it until my throat went dry.”
So, the question that follows this is “why is no one screaming, shouting, tweeting, and talking about your book until their throat goes dry?” And the fact that my answer to the last question falls into one of the many “different strokes for different folks” rhetoric variations, which I already mentioned earlier, is exactly why I think I need a drink.
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