So it’s June now, which means that Publication Day is upon us.
Hammer of God, the third book in my first ever trilogy – Godspeaker – is out on the shelves. That knocking sound you hear is my knees, gentle readers …
You might think it gets easier, the more books you finish and have published. And perhaps it does, insofar as the more books you write, the more you start to believe you can actually do this! But that clutching sensation in the pit of the belly, that thrill of adrenaline through the blood, that wobbly, light-headed feeling that strikes when P-Day approaches … that, it would seem, never goes away.
And to be honest, though it’s hardly comfortable, I’m not entirely certain that I want it to. Because if there ever comes a time when I don’t get all tizzy about a new book being published, if ever I start taking the miracle for granted, well, that’s the time I’m surely asking for a swift kick up the posterior.
Being published is such a privilege, and an honour. Sometimes the responsibility feels overwhelming, because it’s not just the author on the line when a book comes out. Everyone who’s championed that book along the way, the agents and editors and copy-editors and publicity folk and everyone in-house who contributes to its creation, all these wonderful people have a stake in the success of the books they’ve worked on, and if that book doesn’t do well in the world, they feel the sting just as keenly as does the author.
Someone once said, ‘Art is never finished, only abandoned.’ – and I have to say I heartily agree with the sentiment. One reason I rarely go back and read a book once it’s been published is because I’m terrified I’ll discover all the ways I got it wrong, and those mistakes will paralyse me as I attempt to write the next book. Of course, I do try to learn from my mistakes. Each book I write is a valiant attempt to do a better job than I did previously … but there’s nothing more demoralising than realising you’ve not done something as well as you might have, knowing there’s not a snowball’s hope in Hades that you can go back and fix it.
Writing is a peculiar occupation, so very solitary. But then, so is reading – unless you’re involved in a reading aloud session with a book club, or friends. Sometimes it feels like I’m whispering into an enormous void … and as I whisper I imagine a host of ghostly readers out there, somewhere on the fringes, straining to hear me.
Allow me to thank you in advance, those readers who’ve heard my solitary whispering and placed fragile faith in my words.
As the P-Day nerves stutter me to near-incoherence, know that this author is so pleased she’s not alone.
Karen Miller
