Last week, a good friend of mine called me and opened with, “You are the only person I know who would get even more anxious at their own success, so I thought I would call in to check on you.”
They’re not wrong.
In case I haven’t banged my own drum enough, I wrote a book and my publicist/agent has been working in overdrive and now I can’t go anywhere without seeing my stupid head (subtext: he is awesome at his job). Many people would take the moment and allow themselves to celebrate, but I recoil in self-disgust and blank myself from my own existence.
It’s an odd place to exist. I write because I get to hide. I don’t need to be seen. I get to navigate the world with anonymity. I don’t need to be on when I don’t want to be. I get to walk around looking like a piece of shit.
I was wrong.
We are in a new world where television, radio and podcasts all feed into books. People want to see your face. Launches are recorded and thrown up on the internet. Apparently, to be able to write, you also have to be charming, charismatic, hot, funny, fashionable and well-spoken.
In this new, terrifying world, bookstores now have their own TikTok accounts.
Strangers send me DMs via Instagram about their traumatic experiences growing up in Australia. Twitter is a space I dare not look at.
It’s enough to drive me to drink.
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