Writing is a solitary profession; honestly, it’s one of the things I love about what I do. But the greatest irony that goes along with that is how much of ourselves we end up sharing with the world.
I just finished some polishes on By Wingéd Chair and I’ve sent it out to a couple beta readers. I meet with a critique partner regularly, but there’s something different about sending your work to readers you respect and want to impress. Critique partners are supposed to tear your stuff apart if only to make it better. But by the time it goes to a beta reader, it should be marketable, if not publishable. So it’s a bit more nerve-wracking, especially since these are friends and family members I’m going to have to face again.
Writers put everything into their work whether they intend to or not. Our ideals, hopes and fears leak into the story even when we’re using our imaginations or playing devil’s advocate. I reread my novel and I’m amazed and a little embarrassed by how much of myself ends up on the page. So when I send it off to readers, I can’t help wondering what will they see when they read it? Will they see my insecurities? Will they read more into this than I intended?
We’re taught to develop a thick skin if we want to be better, but you can’t pretend a novel doesn’t mean everything to you. And it’s easy to see this as discouragement, to refuse to let your novel go for fear of what other people will say. Because when you send it into the world, you’re laying yourself bare, hanging your heart on your sleeve.
It’s scary to be so open with complete strangers, but there’s something truly special about being known. And in the end, isn’t that why you wrote the book in the first place? To give the world something of yourself?