Anxiety.
When my wife suggested we use Animus Vox as the book of the month for our book club fear crept up my spine and into my brain. Worse still, instead of the usual month, it would be six weeks before we’d meet again. I’m not exaggerating when I say the terror grew from mild panic to true horror in a matter of days. These weren’t random folks from the internet, I could handle my work being ripped to bloody tatters by anonymous critics, but these people are incredibly well-read, diverse, and some don’t read fantasy at all. On top of all that, they’re friends. Not the kind of velvety friends who heap candy-coated praise out of the kindness of their hearts, but the brutally honest variety who’d slaughter the main characters and story. If they didn’t like it, they’d just put it down. That, for me, would be worse than even the harshest criticism.
Yikes…
The final week was something akin to what a death’s row inmate must feel as the sun rose on their final day on earth. I’d already gone through the five stages of grief and considered canceling, faking my own death, and moving to Mexico to start a new life. I’d have to bury the novel in a deep, unmarked grave somewhere along the way. While my wife prepared the hors d’oeuvres, I read the manuscript last rites. Any last words?
My imagination ran wild. How would the discussion go if it bored them to tears? What if they hated it or felt it wasn’t really marketable? What if no one showed up? What if I had delusions of grandeur of ever selling a copy because it was my work and I was proud of it? When you put your heart and soul (not to mention 8 years of writing and re-writing) into something, it can be devastating when someone that you respect tells the truth: It sucks, maybe take up professional bowling?
Just as I was considering a drink to calm my nerves (if you don’t pour it into a glass, one bottle of wine counts as a drink, right?) The guests arrived in small groups. I couldn’t look them in the eyes. They were jovial enough, none had pitch-forks, at least. My wife’s appetizer was a hit (meat, cheese, fruit, and cracker tray, she splurged on the fancy crackers). We started the process for mulling wine, a welcome gift from one of the soon to be critics. I couldn’t help but worry that it was a symbolic “Thanks for playing, better luck next time”.
Dinner was served. I have no idea what it tasted like, but I wolfed down a double portion. Nothing says distinguished intellectual and masterful writer quite like mashed potatoes in your beard…
Wine wouldn’t do, but a double shot of Irish Whiskey on the rocks definitely helped.
Suddenly, it was time. We moved outside to our lighted patio to enjoy the pleasant evening and discussion began.
My studious wife had mentally prepared an oral survey along with discussion questions. I could feel the hammer about to drop. Too late to snag another glass from the kitchen, it was happening now.
There was no brutal ravaging of the manuscript. In fact, they all felt it was well written. They enjoyed the realistic characters and felt exactly what I had envisioned. When the first person mentioned the twist ending and the emotional rollercoaster she experienced, I let my defenses down. They actually liked it! One of those who doesn’t read fantasy was already asking for the second book, she just wanted to know more. The discussion becomes something like I was used to hearing about other books, real books, popular books, powerful books. Holy shit…
My heart rose, my soul soared on golden wings, my head would have bloated like a hot air balloon, but the nerves held it in check. After two hours of great criticism and the kind of feedback writers dream about, it was over. I was emotionally exhausted but creatively exhilarated. It was some kind of Nirvana.
The last of the critics left still talking about my work. MY work, the thing I had WRITTEN with my own hands. I was paid the highest compliment I’ve ever been given about anything I’d done. “Honestly, it’s like C.S. Lewis wrote something inspired by Tolkien, with an understanding of popular modern culture. It isn’t all elves and orcs and warfare, it’s more accessible than that. It isn’t typical fantasy, which I don’t read, but if there are fantasy books like this out there, maybe I should. It was a page-turner and I really enjoyed the ride.”
Wow…
Then, my head did swell, just a bit.
All in all, it was a strange, wonderful experience. The terror, the elation, the anxiety, and the joy. In some way, it validated my creation. Even if it never sees print in bookstores or writing never becomes a career, Animus Vox brought joy to a group of higher-level thinkers and something I wrote was compared, even in passing, to Tolkien and C.S. Lewis. I’d say that’s enough, but it only fueled the fire. The old craving is back and creative juices are flowing once more.
Maybe it’s hubris or simply riding the wave of endorphins, but I feel it. One day this novel will be more than a hobby. All it takes is the right person giving it a chance, the rest is just unwritten history.
B. A. Peery 