The Pain of Perceived Poseurdom

Or, You Guys Wanna Hang Out?????

I’m not very outgoing. Chalk it up to never drinking (family history of alcoholism) or a general social anxiety I’ve never gotten the handle of. I’ve always relied on work to fill my friendship gas tank; fellow retail employees through college, cops and prosecutors while I was in the NYPD. Shared occupational experiences broke the ice for me. Provided talking points when I feared I had none of my own. It’s a problem, and has been my whole life. I’d like to say I’m working on it. I’d like to say a lot of things.

Since retiring in 2018 and moving to Massachusetts, I’ve struggled to make new friends. I work now from home—a part-time investigations gig—and I write. Both are largely solitary endeavors. But over the last three or four years, I’ve come to know writers I respect. Most of them are published, some major award winners. All have been kind and engaging and thoughtful. These text threads and group DMs have kept me going. I’m grateful and lucky to have these people in my life.

A few times a year writers get together at festivals and conferences. I’ve written about this before, after attending my first Bouchercon last September. It was a tremendous experience. I attached faces to phone contacts and had a long sit down with an editor who was considering acquiring my last novel. I felt, for the first time since leaving the NYPD, like I’d found my tribe. But a nagging doubt still claws at me: I haven’t sold a novel. And if I don’t, I’m going to get kicked the hell out of this club.

Courtesy of Gramercy Pictures

There’s a story in Matthew McConaughey’s memoir/self-help guide/spiritual odyssey Green Lights about how, when he first got to Hollywood, he crashed on a producer’s couch. McConaughey was auditioning a lot but not booking any jobs. One day, the producer sat him down and explained how the town works. “You can want this, but you can’t need it” (I’m paraphrasing here). Filmmakers sensed McConaughey’s desperation, and it turned them off. McConaughey claims he loosened up, met Richard Linklater and made Dazed and Confused. Twenty-one years later we got Rust Cohle. Just chill, McConaughey implies, and you’ll eventually create something iconic. I remain dubious. Twenty years of detective work has made me a hardcore cynic. It’s a shitty way to live.

In three weeks I’m attending my third Thrillerfest in New York City. It’s the biggest publishing conference for my genre (thrillers, mysteries, and crime). This year I’m teaching a class on writing believable action (the organizers must envision me as more Jack Reacher than Barney Miller). This should be a time of great promise: the new novel’s out with editors and I’m having dinner with eleven other writers friends. A highly-respected agent represents me. I’ve come farther than so many others who try to get published.

And yet.

This post wasn’t meant to dissolve into self-pity. And I hope it hasn’t. Writing is inherently rewarding, and I’m lucky to have the time it requires. But getting published feels like spreading one’s legs and having Leonel Messi having a go at your tender bits. So many writers in my position express the same concern: publishing is a mental health shit show. Even big authors who’ve won major awards and sold tens of thousand of books talk about this constant sense of instability. How you’re only one bad showing away from sliding back down the mountain. And me? I haven’t even started the climb. Which brings me back to where we started: how long can I hang with authors before feeling like I don’t belong?

Much has been written in the last few years about imposter syndrome. A sense that, even when one is successful in a field, they’re don’t know what they’re doing and will eventually be found out. I have the social version of that. That these friends who’ve opened up to me will one day realize I can’t do the thing they do, and move on. That fear is more reflective of my own insecurities than any real world concerns. These are solid people who won’t ditch me if this novel doesn’t sell. I know this. I know this. But I also know how I’ll feel if I never share their professional concerns. Because all my relationships have been built off work, that armor that’s protected me my whole life. It is unwise to link one’s personal fulfillment with professional success. But right now I have no other avenue. What happens if another novel goes unsold?

In summation: I’m scared.

I wasn’t sure I should publish this essay. It could be perceived as whiny and self-important. Disingenuous, even; I’m not laying tar on some sun-soaked highway or knocking tin at a job site. Like Jay Z said, “…deal with, this shit ain't work/this light work”. And I can walk away whenever I want. Problem is, I want this. All I gotta do is accept that I don’t need it. If I get to that point, everything’ll be alright, alright, alright.

Right?