When I front up they will know I am a fake. Not fake like Norma Khouri or even fake like James Frey. My empty place is where you take this thing that presents someone exciting, sexy, successful and usher me up onto the podium and I am just me. My ordinariness astounds me. I am too large and too loud at times and too wracked by insecurity. One eye on the audience, the other on the terror of never writing another good book again.
I should bask in the glow of good reviews, but instead I am distraught, wondering if this hype will just serve to dissapoint people when they read my next novel.
I am afraid I will freeze over when I am reading from my work. I am afraid I will not have enough to say about the creation of that work. I will be on the same stage as M J Hyland and Ethan Canin. Enough to make me quake even now, a week out from the thing.