I don't get nervous. I don't get rattled, either. When that idiot/not idiot intentionally crashed into us, then rammed his car into a building, I felt cool as a cucumber the entire time. Didn't get the adrenaline rush I'd been expecting, nor any swings in emotion. Likewise, I can get up and speak to a bunch of strangers in court with no hint of nerves, just a vague tingle of excitement. Basically, cucumber.
And no, I'm not a sociopath (while scary things don't bug me, I can't watch Schindler's List-type movies for fear of blubbing like a baby).
Today, however, I was paralyzed with fear. There I was, at the collision center turning over my vehicle for repair after the above-mentioned accident, when I was confronted by something I knew I'd one day have to face.
Yes, a professional reviewer had read and passed judgment on my book. My publisher forward a link to the review in an email but I couldn't bring myself to read it. Publishers Weekly is the organ, and whoever wrote the review doesn't know me or care one jot for my feelings. Reviews, after all, are for readers not writers.
And that's what scared me. If you know me, you like me, right? And if you like me, you'll say nice things about my book - even if you're not wild about it. Right?! But a stranger? Whose job it is to analyze books?
I called my wife and made her read it first.
As with any good story, all's well that ends well. The best bit is that the reviewer liked my main character, which is key when a series is on the cards. Here's the full review (and yes, it's favorable. Think I'd link to it if it wasn't?!).
Trouble is, this is just the beginning. I suspect every time I see a review of my book, I'll be reduced from my usual state of manliness to a weak and insecure quivering wreck. But so far so good - if the other ones aren't as favorable, I can always come back to Publishers Weekly's words. After all, everyone knows they are clearly gifted, talented, and downright geniuses when it comes to reviewing mysteries. . .