When I first received the PDF version of Running in Silence, I was in awe of the layout (props to Koehler Books!). But this soon turned into somewhat of a horror film as I began to make a final round of SMALL EDITS/CORRECTIONS (emphasis, my publisher).
Thoughts: It’s almost a book! So many things to fix that I hadn’t seen before! I can’t publish this right now!!!
I asked my publisher if we could get more time. I asked if we could change multiple sentences and paragraphs, and I questioned myself as an author. I was in what I now call “pre-publication freak-out,” a stage that my editor admitted she experienced as well with her book Looking for Lydia, Looking for God.
Most of the “fixes” I wanted to be made are likely unnoticeable to most readers. But as an author, a writer–someone who critiques, analyzes, and reads so many other books, works to hone the craft, and who wrote most of the book at the age of 22, I am now a 25-year-old author who constantly finds ways to improve and wants to put her best work out there.
I’m not afraid of negative reviews. If anything, I want to have some of those among positive reviews. I want to see ways in which I can improve. Because I am an author, and I am a writer–still writing, still wanting to produce future books (having already written my second). And I know that all positive reviews don’t necessarily mean it’s a perfect book. I want readers to express themselves. I want the book to start a discussion, to speak for a community, and both positive and negative reviews will get that conversation going.
I’m putting myself out there, yes. But it’s not the story itself that terrifies me. I’ve told my story hundreds of times. It no longer frightens me to share the binges, or how I felt about my body and running. What scares me is the way I tell my story, the way I want it to come across to readers.
I keep reminding myself that my greatest wish is not to make this the perfect book, but instead to connect, encourage, and support others. It is, above all, a book about imperfection. That’s what has helped me to look at those sentences and paragraphs one last time. I acknowledge their bravery, their worth, and their imperfection.
And slowly, happily, I let them go.