The Joy (and Safety) of the Pre-Publication Bubble

What if I could just remain in this cozy, liminal space forever?

This rudimentary drawing of mine was originally used to illustrate an early installment of this newsletter, before I had a book deal.

Each time I encounter “most anticipated” lists for books coming out in 2022, initially I become insulted. I think, Hey, what about my book? Then I remember that my book is not quite done yet—that I’ve got one last round of light revisions to tackle, then copyediting and proofreading, and a few other sniggly little tasks.

I also remember that other than a Goodreads page, and a Publishers Lunch announcement from two years ago, there’s scant evidence I have a memoir coming out next summer, if at all. There aren’t yet galleys, there’s no press release or other publicity materials.

When I remind myself of all that, something unexpected occurs: a sense of comfort and safety washes over me. It doesn’t quite override the excitement of finally fulfilling this long-held dream, but it comes surprisingly close.

Monday, when I received notes from my editor for the final round of revisions, I was struck by a feeling of terror. This is becoming very real, I thought. There’s no backing out now. That I’d be anxious about putting extremely personal writing out into the world should surprise no one, least of all me—the person who’s anxiously interviewed many memoirists over the years about how they’ve handled exposing themselves, plus other living, breathing “characters” who make appearances in their books, especially those who might prefer to be omitted.

This anxiety simply comes with the territory, and is, at least to some degree, warranted. You tell your secrets, you dare to call attention to yourself, and there are going to be people who don’t like it. Some will legitimately just think what you’ve written is bad, and say so, very publicly. Others will be assholes merely because they take great pleasure in dunking on other people, or because they get paid to do that, as cleverly as possible. I’ve been down this road enough times to know that at least some of this is surely coming, and it scares the bejesus out of me.

What’s more, the world and the internet are now more fraught places than ever before. In all the years I’d been striving toward this goal, I couldn’t have anticipated how much more difficult life would turn out to be by the time my book would be published (possibly leading some to find some of my stories too painful to read) nor how much more hostile Twitter—ironically one of the most reliable tools for publicizing your work—would become, especially toward people who write candidly about their lives.

It makes it tempting to hang out in this pre-publication cocoon—the space in which I’m just a writer with a deal for a book you haven’t read yet—to stay suspended here, like an insect in amber, forever. (Okay, I’ll stop with the metaphors.)

On the flip side, I’m relatively certain there’ll also be people who will enjoy my book, and truly *get* where I’m coming from. I’ve received enough positive responses from readers of my personal essays and newsletters and other writings over the years to know that there’s a receptive audience out there with whom my work resonates strongly. That audience is likely significantly bigger than the peanut gallery. When I remind myself of that, I get excited again about putting And You May Find Yourself… out into the world.

I’ll try to keep that cohort front-of-mind, rather than the assholes, as I take on this last round of minor revisions. I’ll also pay extra mind to where I might have been an asshole in earlier drafts. In recent years my sense of what’s fair game to include in your memoir has shifted, influenced by writers like Melissa Febos, who talks about that in her forthcoming craft book, Body Work: The Radical Power of Personal Narrative, and Kiese Laymon, who has been very public about having regrets regarding some of what he included in his excellent 2018 book, Heavy: An American Memoir.

Recently, Laymon posted this thought to Instagram:

kieselaymon

A post shared by Kiese Laymon (@kieselaymon)

The post appeared at the exact moment I needed to see it—when I was gearing up to write my editor and let her know I felt the need to “sand off some of the remaining sharp, painful edges,” before going to press.

And so I did. And so I will.