The first email I read last Monday morning was from a book tour organizer, gently explaining that the book review I expected from a blogger would not be coming after all…because the reviewer couldn’t even finish reading my book. She couldn’t get through it.

Now, I am well aware of the faults in my first novel, and I really don’t want to be telling you all this. The embarrassment and horror that I feel is Everest-sized, and it comes after I had to rush the hand-off for the manuscript for book 3. It was a lousy way to start a week. Pouting ensued, and then soul-searching, contemplation of buying a bottle of wine, and eventually remembering that it was Monday and I was responsible for keeping a 9-year old little boy alive. My husband (who I also have to keep alive, because most days he walks out of the house with his shirt on inside-out) gave me a hug and then wisely kept his distance. Instead of writing anything, I folded laundry and contemplated a life in a different career.

There’s a point to this. A lot of discussion happens about how social media usage damages mental health, especially teenage girls. In a similar way, authors who are careful to never talk about their bad reviews and embarrassing mistakes - the typos that slip into print, or the days when not a single book sells - do the same to the rest of the community of authors. The life of an author is fraught with rejection and disappointment, and creating a false narrative of success doesn’t help anyone.

So, I am tentatively crawling out on this brittle limb to tell everyone that this happened: a book review that was supposed to go live last week was cancelled because the reviewer just couldn’t get into it. It doesn’t matter that I poured two years of my sanity, health, and what remained of my cold, shriveled heart into the book; it simply wasn’t good enough. And this is OK, because every single failure is an opportunity to learn and grow, even though I wanted to crawl into my bed and never come out again.

The first thing I did after this epiphany, was crawl into bed.

I took a handful of melatonin and when I woke up the next morning I was able to think clearly again. I remembered that two weeks ago I received an unexpected and wonderful email from a man who said that he absolutely loved the book. There are scores of reviews on Amazon, BookBub, and Apple Books shouting “these characters are complex but worth the wait!” And I reminded myself of something that I try to keep in mind when I am dealing with a difficult person: no matter what you may think about someone’s life or their successes (e.g. a writer whose first novel was signed to a major publishing company and then made into a Netflix series) we never know what is actually happening in people’s lives. It may look like perfection from our angle, but it’s a different story from theirs.

To you, dear readers, there isn’t much mystery. If something is happening, I tell people about it. This hasn’t always won me friends, but it is the truth of who I am. And readers, you will always know how I am. And right now, who I am is discouraged, hopeful, dreamy, and in love with life.

So, if you are an author feeling like you’re a serial failure at everything you’ve ever tried in your life, I am here to tell you that I AM TOO. And I am going to pick myself back up again and keep going truthfully. No PR team needed.

May you take joy and encouragement in my lousy Monday, and if you celebrate Valentine’s Day, I love you.

XOXOXO

E.R.A.