On Publishing

I self-published a book this fall: What Remains: Poetry & Essays. I started writing it when my daughter was a baby. She’s a teenager now.

At first the whole process was a celebration of so many years of work. I was excited to get the proof copies in the mail, and to announce it online. I was excited when pre-orders came in — people actually wanted to buy my book! I was excited when the box of printed books arrived, and then to ship them out all over the country. I was excited to meet with friends and family and hand them this rectangle made of paper and dreams that I had worked so hard to create for so many years.

Then my mind slipped. All that excitement gave way to dread.

I felt like I had sent a tiny kitten to cross a busy highway alone.

What was I thinking, putting something so raw and vulnerable out into the world? What if someone reads my book and doesn’t like it? What if they don’t like me because of it?

My husband reminded me that no actual kittens were in danger because I published a book of poetry. And my intention was never to be liked by everyone (which is, of course, impossible.) My goal was to be like a lighthouse for people like me. To lead others through the journey of despair, and help them find their way back out again. My hope was to also help people who maybe aren’t like me, but who love people like me, to help them understand this experience of having an uncertain mind.

He reminded me that I did my best to achieve these goals with the resources I had available. Self publishing on a small budget means no professional team to help me out. I relied on my best judgement, and a small circle of friends and family. Poetry is inherently imperfect, anyway. Who’s to say which word or line is right or wrong? There’s only so much that can be done.

Talking with him, I realized that I could accept criticism instead of fear it. My book is not for everyone. Poetry isn’t for everyone. Talking openly about depression and anxiety isn’t for everyone. Writing about plants and mountains and birds isn’t for everyone. That doesn’t make it any less valuable for those that do want to read this sort of thing.

There are people who are capable of both not liking my writing and still loving me. And honestly? The people who might judge me negatively for this book probably wouldn’t like me no matter what I write, unless I drastically change who I am to suit them… which ain’t gonna happen.

However, I find don’t want to blithely say, “I don’t care what other people think,” and dismiss them entirely. While I am working to not feel so emotionally invested in other people’s thoughts and opinions, I still want to be the sort of person who is interested in other people’s thoughts. It’s part of who I am. I am curious about the world.

That said, I have realized that I have spent too much time agreeing with the cruelest judgments made about me. I read this online recently and it really resonated with me: “Don’t let people who hate you define who you are.”

Even with that new perspective, I found I was still scared about having published my book. Why? Even though my fear of what people thought about my book had lessened, I was still afraid of how my book might make people feel.

In my book, I talk about suicidal thoughts and coping with the aftermath of an abusive relationship. I occasionally use swear words. I did a lot of editing to put difficult experiences within the context of healing, and to not dwell on the details. To lead people through it, not make them relive it. I have been through trauma, and have struggled with PTSD in the past, and I did not want my writing to trigger anyone. But I also did not want to only publish the gentle parts of me, because it didn’t feel honest.

So I worked on re-writing the description of my book. After some research and careful consideration, I decided to not include a literal “trigger warning,” but I did try to make it clear that it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows (although there are both sunshine and rainbows in the book!)

But what helped the most was friends and family shared their encouragement and gratitude after reading my book. The outpouring of love and support about this project was the exact opposite of what I feared would happen. I copied all of their emails and text messages into a document to read over and over again. To reassure myself that my little metaphorical kitten is safe. It wasn’t on a highway after all. It was playing in a room of kind, caring people, with gentle hands offering toys and treats.

It turns out that my book makes people think and feel things. That’s the role of poetry, after all. I’m still a bit anxious about the whole thing, alongside feeling proud and happy and excited.

I’m also already working on writing my next book.