I’ve got to do a public talk about my debut novel. A live audience. Two months from now.

I’m terrified.

That’s right. I can already feel the anxiety growing. ‘Performance’ is so far outside my comfort zone that fourteen years ago I declined my brother’s request to be best man at his wedding, a decision I still regret. Why did I turn down such an honour? Because of the responsibilities accompanying the role; meeting and greeting strangers, being in the public eye, and not forgetting the big one… the best man’s speech, the centrepiece for any wedding high jinx. You’re supposed to enlighten, entertain and riff. Be a raconteur extraordinaire. It was all I could do to get through my own wedding more than twenty years ago (alcohol, cigarettes and smelling salts did the trick). In the event, it was the happiest day of my life (joined now by the kids’ birthdays). My brother’s wedding was also a wonderfully special occasion and I did perform a role – being ‘stunt Dad’ for the day (having lost our father a few years earlier).

Why am I writing this? For two reasons really. Firstly, it’s incumbent upon an author to promote themselves, and their book(s), whether you’re on the first rung of the ladder (yours truly), or a global publishing phenomenon with a back catalogue stretching over decades.

Secondly, it harks back to a fundamental truth, or principle, necessary for impactful fiction writing; emotion. Or rather, emotional depth. Something I find difficult doing in public (may be it’s ‘British’ thing; that fabled reserve and stiff upper lip).

I’m going to refer back to my time working on the Netflix show (see an earlier post). Watching the actors perform in front of a crew of well over 50 – sometimes, with extras, the audience numbered in the hundreds – it became apparent why some folk are designed for performance and most of us aren’t. The actors laid themselves bare in search for authenticity bringing the characters to life. Much as I might like to think I could do the same, I couldn’t. I’m self-conscious, introverted, sometimes lacking in confidence. Why this is I can speculate, but there’s neither the time nor the space to go there today. The point is I could only watch and admire these young actors do their thing, seemingly oblivious to everyone and everything going on around them. It was all so very easy and natural for them to put on a performance.

And yet. When I write I feel able to express myself in a way I never can verbally, in conversation. That’s not to say I can’t, it just doesn’t feel natural. I don’t crave social occasions and talking to strangers is not easy. Mostly people don’t notice (or claim not to), but inside I twist myself in knots. But I find it easy to describe characters’ inner lives and turmoil, their hopes and fears and most secret, embarrassing, awkward thoughts. Similarly, I can write about my own failings quite happily. The funny thing is, people regularly say they can’t do the same, that is to say ‘write how I feel’. And these are the very people I look to with admiration for their ability to hold a room captive with anecdotes and engaging repartee (I’m hardwired not to do small talk, I wish I could!).

For me, talking, presenting, engaging a larger audience face-to-face on the same subjects I write about is a challenge.

Things have got easier over the years, for a host of reasons. Not least I’m older and wiser. My day job regularly requires me to ‘host’ calls, or village and town halls, with hundreds of people. Or facilitate busy working sessions. I’ve had to. It’s part of the quid pro quo climbing the career ladder. But strangely nothing feels quite as natural as writing, even in the knowledge these words will enter the public domain, be read, and critiqued.

Reading about authors’ experiences, and book promotion in particular, I have the sense I’m not alone. It seems many of us dread this aspect of a job which is, inherently, an isolating pursuit. Perhaps that’s why we write; a form of expression that’s uncomfortable using other, more direct (in person) methods. Who knows.

For a while I even hid my fiction under a bushel. Too embarrassed to share it. This could be because of the mantra ‘write what you know’ thus whatever is written is somehow autobiographical. Well perhaps. However, studying creative writing and working in a collaborative, supportive group, finally gave me the courage to bring my fiction out into the light. I came to realise the only way I was going to get better as a writer was by engaging with others and putting it out there. It’s been a blessing. At the end of the day, it all comes down to mindset, and overcoming the human instinct of putting ourselves at the centre of every story. The truth is, most people neither ‘see’ you, nor care. They’re too busy worrying about themselves.

Back to the talk in May. Yes, it fills me with terror, yes I’m worried I’ll fluff my lines, embarrass myself (or shame my family who’ll be present!). But I have chosen to do this. I must put myself out there. I’ll be talking about my book, after all. A subject I’m passionate about and know inside and out. I suppose my fear comes from being so emotionally invested with the story and the wider publishing process. I want to avoid a misstep that might impact the novel’s success. That includes messing-up in front of an audience.

For me anyway, the process of writing and now publishing a novel points up the contradictions of being a writer. On the one hand we can expose ourselves emotionally on the page and yet, ask us to do the same on a stage and it can all get a little tricky. What do you think?