Bleeding Publicly

‘Writing is easy, you just sit in front of a typewriter and bleed.’ – Ernest Hemingway

A writer’s journey in self-publishing or, as it is sometimes considered, hanging your soul on a flagpole while handing the villagers stones.

By Colleen Ferrary

I never imagined John Grisham or Nora Ephron feeling so vulnerable. I imagine there are pieces of their beings littered across their pages as well. But I wonder? Was it as hard for them to send their works out into the world? Did they reveal a piece of their soul on each page? I assume from Hemingway’s quote that he and I share a common style. Not that I could ever compare myself to Hemingway, but I followed his direction perfectly. 

I bled.

Last week I released my very first novel to the universe – well, at least to the Amazon universe. I have been successful in business, an outspoken advocate, coached CEO’s, but nothing has been as soul-baring and intimidating as sharing my first novel with the world. Until now, I have been hiding in closets and on blogs practicing my skill. After forty plus years of practice and some great coaching, I finally gathered enough courage to hit “Publish!”

Before the publish button.

Writing the book was easy compared to the time between typing “The End” and clicking “Publish.” After you finish typing, there is a normal progression of events I assume all writer’s follow:

First: You read excerpts to your husband and he tells you how strange it is to see so much of himself on a page. Then he asks you to remove the sex scenes – which you don’t. “They show the passion the characters feel for each other,” you insist.

Editing is next. You choose the most intimidating of editors – your college literature professor who is faster with a red ball point pen than a puppy on cocaine.

Next: Your husband freaks out because while you’re editing the part of the book where he’s a giant a-hole, you go to bed angry for no reason at all. He didn’t do anything, but you have just put yourself in a world where he had for the past six hours. And now? You can’t mentally shift gears enough to even give him a proper kiss goodnight. 

Then you share with people you trust. These are friends who have no problem telling you your haircut is awful and you have a bat in the cave. So, they read it and it takes them more than a day and you freak out – even though these people have full-time jobs and twelve kids and volunteer at the homeless shelter eight days a week. 

So, now it’s time to wait. You wait for what feels like an eternity. Your dreams are dangling precariously in the hands of a dozen opinions and a college literature professor who has been practicing crushing writers’ dreams for over two decades. You spend the next week bracing yourself for feedback, and when it doesn’t come, you start visiting Indeed.com to see what other options exist for you out there: Dog food copywriter? 

It’s when the first review comes in that you cry.  Or perhaps, if you’re one of those thick-skinned writers who doesn’t give a flip about other’s opinions, you grab your scotch.

‘Colls, I haven’t read your book yet because my Mom saw it on my table and started reading it while I was with the handyman. She took it home because she had to know what happened! She finished it in two days and told me that I “absolutely need to read Rainey’s book.” She loved it! - D”

You try to convince yourself that they’re all going to be as good but your fear – no, your terror – has you in a vice grip.  

“Was she just being nice?”

And now, you occupy your time. You have a few choices to help you stop obsessing. I know a few writers who prefer a constant stream of wine versus losing themselves in more work. I personally chose to start a second book (and the wine.) This one is lighter - because I just can’t write another emotionally invested book (but it becomes one, anyway.)

And then you distract yourself even more by having your Facebook friends vote on your book title. The Decision: Rainey Beaufort. It’s decided. Now what? You are running out of things to do and you start doubting your ability to write the second book.

Finally, self-mutilation… Well, maybe you just pinch yourself, really hard.  Could these be real?

The second review:

I don’t care what the title is, THIS BOOK IS REALLY GOOD! I had to force myself to stop reading it so I could make dinner. Plus, my iPad died. I wonder how long it will take to recharge so I can finish?

And the next:

Finished. Wow! I couldn’t put it down. I laughed, I cried, I got angry, I smiled. I felt like I knew Rainey and was cheering her on.

But then the worst:

“I hate it.” 

You’re crushed. It’s your biggest fear realized. But then, you ask “Why?”  

“I know you both too well. I love Simon – I mean, your husband – there is too much truth in the story. You made me hate him and love him. I don’t want to hate him. I was so angry through parts of this... But, damn! It’s well-written, I couldn’t put it down. <3”

Another friend told me he couldn’t read one more page without calling to make sure it was actually fiction. He was up all night, furious with my husband “for what he had done to me.” After being assured of my happiness and The Decision’s place on the fiction shelf, he finished the rest of the book in one day and has since shared it with several friends.

A book club I gave it to told me that they couldn’t stop talking about what they would do in the same situation. Would they tell all their friends? Would they leave? Would they stay? I received a text late that night from the woman hosting the book club asking if there was a sequel coming. 

OK, confidence built.  I would share it. But first, there was one more opinion I needed.

And then the envelop appears. Just when you think emotions can’t get any thicker, the sheer terror of opening the book manuscript returned from your college professor is paralyzing. You lift it from the stoop. “Is it heavier now? Does red ink really add that much weight to a document?” You move it from the stoop to the dining room table as if it contains anthrax. You stare at it for a period of time that questions your sanity. 

“Is wine a good idea right now?” Maybe. 

“Should I wait and have my husband read it first? Lessen the blow?” 

It’s then that you wondered how you became so insecure. This isn’t a personality trait you’ve embraced in the past. You opt for a scotch and soda in homage to Hemingway and carefully open the package alone, at eleven A.M. 

The first thing you notice is of course, red ink. Plenty of it. Turns out you make the same five mistakes over and over and over. You can live with that. But where’s her assessment?? You check the sex scenes – would she be disappointed that it was so spicy? You’re happy to see the same five errors so carefully edited on these pages as well. 

Every great literature professor writes comments. Where were hers?!? They were clearly not on the front cover highlighted by a letter grade, as I had been trained to spot. It’s then that you find it. On the last page.

“Your portrayal of a betrayed woman was exceptional… the local characters were superb! My favorite character is Maude – I would love to have seen more of her… When are you publishing?” and then a few lines about my use of conjunctions and repeating the word “actually.”

“As soon as I fix the 270 pages of red ink I was just handed.” I smiled as I sipped my scotch and soda. “Should have opted for the wine.” I raised my glass to Hemingway and got busy at work correcting my work.

So, you’re left with one question: With something so personal, do you hit “Publish?”

It’s personal, yet it’s fiction. 

Every person who knew me and read it has asked similar questions. “Am I Pilar?” “Am I Melissa?” “Why wouldn’t I be the one you told everything to?” “Are you talking about my husband’s affair?” “Am I Zoe? I didn’t know you felt this way about me.”

The answer is “No. This is fiction.” They could see my blood on each page, as well. They believed it was real. If you see yourself in one of my characters, it’s because I love you, not because you are her. 

Although my husband’s disease is real and many of the events are mine, the characters and details are not.  I am blessed to have the most amazing, supportive and brave husband. And the story? Some of the story is based on him, but only the best parts. This goes for all the other characters as well. Rainey Beaufort is not Colleen Ferrary. Simon Bradley is not my husband. The Beaufort women may resemble some of my family, but they are not.

I did live next to a sixty-year-old Boy Scout who did show up at my door with a Ziploc bag containing my blind dog’s poop, but I adored him and his wife none-the-less. Each character was a combination of many of the great characters I have met in my life, and some of whom I haven’t.

 “I fell in love with the Beaufort women. [Ferrary’s] ability to describe locals who breeze onto the pages to help tell the story is like adding ice cream to an already delicious dessert.’   

I can’t take credit for this. This was a gift that I received by spending Wednesday nights this summer at Bryant Park at a writer’s workshop. I learned that people who are too perfect are not believable – that we fall in love with flaws. Well, I have plenty of those, but it inspired me to rewrite many of my characters. No, my beloved friends and family - I don’t know any of the people in this novel. I see myself in each one of them just as you might see yourself in many of them.  It must be personal to be worthy. But this concern alone, made me most nervous. 

Should I publish?

The last step. Well, it’s the step you want to be last, but isn’t. You push the “publish” button and let the world see the finished product and hopelessly pray for the acceptance you never thought you needed.  

I have led teams of thousands, spoke in front of auditoriums full of people, have traveled the globe by myself and have risked my entire life savings on a dream - all as a single mom. 

Writing a book and sending it out to the world? This has been hands-down the scariest thing I have ever done. 

And now, the waiting begins again.

Colleen Ferrary is the author of The Decision: Rainey Beaufort , released on Amazon and Kindle last week.