Being Vulnerable on the Page

(and why it scares me shitless)

Dear Liz,

Someone close to me (rhymes with “fusband” and looks like a middle-aged carpenter) asked me the other day, “Why did you write that last post about hating book clubs? It didn’t make you sound very nice.”

I was like, Oh.

I proceeded to spend a few days feeling down about myself and all the ways I’m not a girl, which has been a lifelong thing for me, though I really am a girl! I swear. I just don’t like book clubs. (If being female looks like a puzzle piece, I’m always that piece with a tab broken off so I never quite fit.) Everyone knows that as a literary female, you have to love book clubs. Maybe love is the wrong word. But at least be able to sit quietly and bite your tongue during a long conversation about the latest buzzy yet unworthy book (looking at you Lessons in Chemistry). You’re also not supposed to be crabby, especially in public, and a million other things.

I had hoped the book club post was more about being honest. I have (strong) opinions about books (and book clubs) and can be a little mouthy about them. But I’m also thrilled when I find bookish people I do want to talk about books with. Your Christmas Hogswatch soirée sounded really nice, and the picture you texted me looked even better. Perhaps it’s a matter of finding the right book club.

But going a little deeper, I think what I’m getting at here is that I want to be real in my Substack, but how real? One hears so much in the writing trenches about likeability, relatability, yadda yadda. Am I a likeable narrator? Do you want to go on my journey with me even if I sometimes get all prickly about books and book clubs?

Fact is, every time I start writing a new Substack post, I’m filled with dread. I hate being me on the page. Raw, truthful, honest…no thanks! I prefer the truth of make-believe.

I heard recently that being vulnerable is the fullest expression of confidence. If that’s the case, I’ll try to be confident and tell you my biggest Substack fears. (I’m writing this late at night so hopefully they aren’t too Gerald’s Game/horror-flick for you – I’ll never forget you almost passing out in the aisle at KingCon when the blood started gushing in that film screening):

• Fear #1: I will attract cynical, hateful crabs to my Substack who will be too afraid of me to comment, or I’ll be afraid of them (!), or just no one will want to play in the sandbox with me and this whole endeavor is a giant waste of time.

• Fear #2: We’ve made a crucial, conspicuous, obvious, rookie mistake in writing our Substacks to each other. What I thought was a terrific idea that invited intimacy between us and any potential (delightfully eavesdropping) readers, is too closed. In other words, are readers totally turned off by our innermost, vulnerable, unsettling, disturbing confessions? (“I mean, SHE DOESN’T LIKE BOOK CLUBS.”) If we’ve made a horrible, vile, heinous mistake, can we change course?

• Fear #3: I’m using Substack all wrong! I find myself reading more of other writers’ work here on Substack and loving it way more than writing my own Substacks and trying to connect with my own readers. Mostly that’s because I’m terrified about writing the “truth”. I haven’t done a lot of this kind of personal writing. I’m not good at it. Who the heck even cares what I think, about literally anything?

• Bonus fear and really the Fear of All Fears for me: I am wasting precious time that I could be spending on my novel. This fear, at its core, is probably more about confidence. In fiction, I feel confident, funny, and talented! With memoir/personal writing, I feel like a baby with mashed carrots all over my face because I can’t figure out how a spoon works. If readers see this on my Substack, they’ll be like, Why on god’s green earth would I read this woman’s novel? If I had just kept quiet and minded my fictional business, they would have read my novel and understood who I really am and how tender and true my heart is beneath all the mouthiness.

Alas. Tater keeps pawing the keyboard, so it must be time to wrap up. Plus, Sir Terry Pratchett’s Night Watch calleth me. So, tell me, dear friend, vulnerability on the page … good, bad, ugly, causing an anxiety attack in the middle of the night?

With love,

-mel