Negotiating with the Dead - Part Six

Dear Margaret Atwood,

Today, we don't meet in person, not even in my imagination.  Today, I am writing on this page and you are my reader, though I do not expect you to ever read what I have written to you.  

Nobody to Nobody

I dread this conversation.  The nobody to nobody dynamic is awesome.  It takes a great deal of imagination for me to conjure up a benign reader.  I imagine the woman in the hospital.  It's me in disguise (obviously).  That's my happy place (as unfortunate as that is).

I'm going to be honest with you, invisible Margaret.  Readers terrify me.  Anytime someone tells me to my face that they've been reading one of my books, my entire body seizes up and I think for a second that I might fold myself in half and puke between my feet.  

People I know are always apologizing for not reading my books.  Either they've bought them and not bothered to read them or they will never read one because I'm not their cup of tea, so they're apologizing for that.  I always tell them it's fine and I mean it.  People I know do not need to read my novels.  Most people want a few degrees of separation between them and the novelist they read whether they are aware of it or not.  Who the hell invented the signed copy?

The idea of a reader reading the way I read things spooks me.  Sometimes I think being a writer is the worst thing in the world. 

When I go somewhere to make a public appearance, I gear up like I'm going into battle.  My favorite thing to wear is metallics, like an actual suit of armor (I'll pair this with something very black so I don't look cheesy, only glamorous in a way most people wouldn't dare).  I'll curl my hair too so that I can look feminine and weak at the same time.  It is a two-pincered defense.  I decide which defense I'm going to take by the look on my face... because it does feel a little bit like everyone wants to attack me.

Them: "Did you go to university to become a writer?"

Me: "Most newspapers are written at a fourth-grade level.  Why would I need to go to university to write at a fourth-grade level?"

Them: "Have you sold many books?"

Me: Crooked eyebrow.  "Are you casing my cashbox?"

Basically, I can't control how people are going to react to my writing.  Just now, I went and checked the reviews and ratings for my novel, His 16th Face, where I got two one-star ratings with no reviews attached to them.  I think that book is a major achievement, but apparently, not everyone thought so.  The reader gets to decide, and that's horrifying. 

The urge to live like a recluse and only have my novels published after I'm dead is pretty strong, except... sadly... that won't work at all.  Not everything is timeless and if there's a time that someone could appreciate my writing, then it's probably now.  

You talk about suicide a lot in your book because authors have been driven to it.  That seems likely.  The author parted the curtain of their skin, let someone else in, and the reader spat on the author's heart and lungs, told them they were no good... and that poor author felt that something was fundamentally wrong with them.  Was there even a place for them in this world?  Because they were chosen to be a writer and if they can't do that then they can't do anything.

Authors are supposed to have thick skin, but this whole subject matter makes me wish I had no skin.  And I want to go back to being a nobody who is writing to nobody.

Thanks for reading,

Nobody

Novelist