In the past three years since my debut novel was published, I've been fortunate to have attended five conferences (four ThrillerFests and one Bouchercon), I've gone on a book tour in the Philippines (which included a feature spot at the Manila Book Fair), and I've done a variety of other book events across the US and Canada, including a charity ball for the Toronto Public Library. It's actually not that much when you compare my schedule to that of other authors, but for someone like me – who's relatively new to publishing, and naturally shy to boot – in-person events like these can be terrifying.
For starters, the other authors I meet at these events seem to be so much more confident. They've been around longer. They know they belong. Unlike me. I'm always wondering if I have anything to contribute to the conversation, and I'm always scared that I don't. Whenever I receive a panel schedule only to discover that I'm discussing serial killers with authors who are consistently on the New York Times bestseller list and who have movie deals in the works, I always want to email the conference coordinators to ask if they made some kind of clerical error inserting my name in with theirs. That little song, "Which one of these is not like the others?" always goes through my mind.
And then, of course, I'm genuinely amazed that anyone even shows up to my panels. Surely the audience isn't there isn't to see me, when everyone else on the panel is funnier, smarter, and more interesting than I am. After the panels, when I'm sitting at the signing table, I always assume someone is lost when they approach me. Even if they're holding a copy of my book in one hand and a pen in the other, I'm still thinking they probably just need directions to the bathroom.
At the Book Lover's Ball, a charity gala for the Toronto Public Library, I found myself at a table filled with corporate sponsors who'd paid good money for a chance to talk to a published author all night. The hotel ballroom was packed, and each table seated eleven people – ten dinner guests and one author. And even though there were exactly ten copies of my book at the table, I still found myself waiting for the real author to show up. I had a hard time accepting that the author for my table was me.
It's an insecurity that I doubt will ever go away. I think I've managed to write each book more confidently than the last, but when it comes to feeling like I belong in the publishing world, I still feel like a fraud most days. I keep waiting for the moment when someone will tell me that I'm in the wrong room, that my name was accidentally added to the panel, and that the kind-looking lady approaching me really does need my help finding the bathroom.
If she does, I will gladly show her the way.
* * *
Jennifer Hillier is the author of the psychological thrillers THE BUTCHER (2014), FREAK (2012), and CREEP (2011). Find her on Facebook at JenniferHillierAuthor, and on Twitter at @JenniferHillier. She blogs at Serial Killer Files and her official website is here.
And then, of course, I'm genuinely amazed that anyone even shows up to my panels. Surely the audience isn't there isn't to see me, when everyone else on the panel is funnier, smarter, and more interesting than I am. After the panels, when I'm sitting at the signing table, I always assume someone is lost when they approach me. Even if they're holding a copy of my book in one hand and a pen in the other, I'm still thinking they probably just need directions to the bathroom.
At the Book Lover's Ball, a charity gala for the Toronto Public Library, I found myself at a table filled with corporate sponsors who'd paid good money for a chance to talk to a published author all night. The hotel ballroom was packed, and each table seated eleven people – ten dinner guests and one author. And even though there were exactly ten copies of my book at the table, I still found myself waiting for the real author to show up. I had a hard time accepting that the author for my table was me.
It's an insecurity that I doubt will ever go away. I think I've managed to write each book more confidently than the last, but when it comes to feeling like I belong in the publishing world, I still feel like a fraud most days. I keep waiting for the moment when someone will tell me that I'm in the wrong room, that my name was accidentally added to the panel, and that the kind-looking lady approaching me really does need my help finding the bathroom.
If she does, I will gladly show her the way.
* * *
