The above hilarious article hit a note for me. See, not too long ago, a fellow author I was thrilled to meet in person for the first time, said to me, “You must just be thrilled beyond belief over how amazingly well Training Season is doing!”
I stuttered in surprise, not sure what to say, and finally just copped to the truth, “Well, actually, I probably should be, but instead I spend most of my time convinced this isn’t real and that it’s only a matter of time before everyone figures out that the book is no good and I can’t write at all.”
For the first month, I kept expecting to log in and see that Training Season had not only plummeted down the charts but that those who had bought the book were returning it in droves. Now, the realization has begun to be unavoidable that people do love the book and they aren’t returning it, which is, yes, completely thrilling. But my inner critic who loves to tell me that I’m an imposter has now shifted their nasty whispers to tell me that Training Season was a fluke and no one will ever like or buy another of my books again. I ignore this voice most of the time or just say, “That’s not the point. I write because I have to and I’ll keep on regardless.”
And that’s true and I don’t need every book to be Training Season, but I’m fascinated and frustrated by the fact that over the last two months I’ve experienced some of the greatest success of my adult life (in terms of my career) and I’ve barely allowed myself even ten minutes of true enjoyment of it. I still feel like it’s preliminary to celebrate. The truth is, I should go pour myself a drink, have a toast, and dance, and sing, and give myself a million high fives. Instead, I’ll probably open my manuscript and poke at it while mildly panicking about whether or not it will be well-received and if that matters and just who do I think I am anyway? That sort of thing. Should be fun. Ha!