I’m an author. I know I’m an author because, from age eight to my current age, I’ve written. I’ve imagined. I’ve fallen in love with the people and pictures and scenarios in my own head. I’ve never stopped and I never will. That’s what makes me an author.
I write. I write constantly and never run out of ideas. That’s what makes me an author.
Recently, I published my first book (DEATH VOWS). It has not sold one-hundred copies yet, or even fifty. It has not garnered a single review anywhere. It’s been published for two weeks. Now, of course, I should not tear myself down or berate myself after two weeks–
–but I’m Lynn Evans, an author, and an extremely sensitive person by nature. Authors are normally sensitive about their work, even if they don’t always show it. If an author is not sensitive, if they are not their own worst critic, it usually shows in their work. An author who truly loves to write has no choice but to pour themselves into their project. Every page is littered with bits and pieces of the writer’s heart and soul.
And then they publish it, bare everything they are–for strangers to see and judge.
When that fictionalized diary is met with silence, for however long, it takes its toll on an author. It would be like somebody telling their friend their deepest, darkest secret, while the friend just stares blankly at them, giving nothing away. What does my friend think, after I’ve told them everything? Are they scandalized? Do they think I’m a bad person? Are they admiring me for my strength?
But they say nothing and do nothing, and you are left to chase these vague inclinations around in your head in an unceasing, grueling cycle. Until they speak. Until they say, “Wow! That’s incredible!” or “Um…wow, that’s…yeah.” But either way, no matter what they say, at least you know definitively what they actually think.
The worst part of baring your soul is the silence with which it is inevitably faced. And the best part? Finding like souls that think you’re just neat-o.
I think the reward outweighs the tension.