The essay below was published in Books By Women, an online literary magazine by and about women. Barbara Bos in the managing editor, and I’m pleased to share my work on her site. I wrote My First Pub Date a month or so after my memoir, From the Lake House, was released. How many first time authors relate to the anxiety I felt leading up to my book’s publication date?!

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My First Pub Date: Hand-Wringing and Epiphany

In the weeks before the release of my memoir, I took to my bed. 

Yes, I know how dramatic and affected I sound, almost as bad as if reporting an attack of the vapors. But truthfully and for a brief stint, my rational, even-keeled self left the room, leaving behind a puny me who climbed into bed midday. Not for long stretches, but for an hour here and there, smack-dab in the middle of the afternoon.

Anyone who knows me knows that this is unusual. I’m not a napper, and, once I’m dressed for the day, I don’t reunite with my bedroom until the sun is down. Plus, I work full time! But there I was, fully dressed in my work-from-home-COVID-attire, under the covers, watching the blades spin from my overhead fan.

Why?

In a word: anxiety.

My memoir was coming out. People might actually read it. Have mercy.

I would not describe myself as someone who suffers from unbearable anxiety. Gold-star worrier? Yes. But has my proclivity to worry prevented me from living my life? No. The running narrative in my head can be draining at times, but I can usually quell it with a long walk, a good book, or a talk with a friend.

Granted, when March hit, and it seemed that all the threads keeping our frayed world together began unraveling, my garden-variety flavor of anxiety heightened. Fitful sleeping, spontaneous tears, and increased irritability. Still, who hasn’t been out of sorts with the steady stream of hard news and disruptions in our lives?

My knees, already weakened by the summer’s tumult, wobbled more as my memoir’s once far-off release arrived. My emotional reserves were dry. I’d told a friend that it’s one thing to write a personal memoir, but it’s entirely different to hand it over to an audience. As this was my first published book, I had yet to experience the anticipation of its reception. How had my worrying mind failed to consider this?

From the Lake House: A Mother’s Odyssey of Loss and Love is my memoir about a series of losses in a short period. My baby was stillborn, my already strained relationship imploded under the weight of grief, and my identity shattered as I had to face a future without being a mother. In my book, I laid out in plain sight the mistakes I’d made and the pain I’d endured. 

This is what memoirists do. We tell our stories with honesty and candor, right?

Yes, but the problem with the above equation is that I’m equal parts private and introverted. When I imagined friends, neighbors, and colleagues reading my book—actually rummaging through the nitty-gritty of a sorrowful season in my life— a nearly crippling doubt took hold. Is publishing a terrible mistake? Is my book too personal? Why did I expose myself? And if that wasn’t enough, Imposter Syndrome showed up. Who do you think you are, calling yourself a writer?

Thus, I took to my bed.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working right now?” my Significant Other would ask when I’d made a few SOS calls.

“Yes,” I’d reply, pulling my quilt up to my neck. My ever-loyal cat, confused by my midday behavior, curled up beside me.

I’d spell out the litany of fears, but my S.O. didn’t understand.

“Hasn’t this been your goal? To publish your book? And you’re already getting positive feedback. I wish you could celebrate your achievement!”

Me, too, I’d think, covering my head with a pillow.

Oh yeah, that was another thing. In addition to battling all of the above trepidations, I decided to judge myself for them. I’d see fellow authors on Facebook, champagne flute in one hand and their book in the other, reveling in their hard-earned accomplishments.

What’s wrong with you? I’d chastise myself. Be happy.

There I was. Locked in a self-designed, looming pub date Room-of-Doom. I was convinced that if there was a key, I didn’t have it. I felt trapped and tiny and terrified. So how did I finally escape and clear off my mud-colored glasses?  

Days after my book’s release, I led a workshop (virtually, of course, thank you COVID) on stillbirth at the Compassionate Friends National Conference. This is an organization that supports families grieving the loss of a child. Telling my story and also attending other presentations throughout the weekend lifted me out of my small perspective. Brave souls from all walks of life bared their pain and offered a hand to the newly bereft. In full-Zoom-display, there was humanity at its best: vulnerable and generous people united in caring for each other. To participate in a most intimate gathering and witness the human spirit’s resiliency is a rare privilege. I was grateful. 

The insight that crystallized for me at the conference was the importance of sharing our stories. They connect us, bring our pain into the collective light, and lay a foundation for healing. The very opposite—isolating ourselves in the dark—is where our suffering worsens and perpetuates. While trapped in my Room of Doom, I’d wanted to believe friends who’d told me that my book might be a source of comfort for others, but my amped up anxiety wouldn’t allow me to see beyond myself. The conference shifted me and provided the reality check I needed: We’re all in this messy and beautiful life together, Kristen. It’s not about you.

My anxiety subsided even further when I began getting feedback about my book. I could finally exhale. Nobody outed me as an imposter author. Nobody judged me (or at least not openly!) after reading about the most challenging events I’ve experienced to date. Even better, my book has been overall warmly received. Notes from distant friends and strangers thank me for putting my story out into the world. The general sentiment from these messages makes my heart sing: Your memoir will help others. 

Stillbirth is not necessarily a topic folks are clamoring to explore, and I’ve always understood that my book won’t be a draw for everyone. In a world that has been turned upside down and that seems to spin more erratically than ever, From the Lake House is not quite the beach-read some might crave at the moment. But I’m still glad to add my story to the others out there that shine a light on a most precious and poignant truth: loss is a universal human experience. It’s not the only one, but it’s a potent one.