Lex Duncan's Blog

If you’re reading this, you’re probably here because of my book. It came out recently. The release of this novel has been something I’ve worked many years toward, and to finally see it come to fruition is pretty amazing. It’s also pretty damn terrifying.

See, I’m a writer, but I also suffer from a host of anxiety-related issues which make doing my job a lot more difficult than it needs to be. With every sentence I write, there’s a tiny voice in the back of my head telling me that whatever I’m writing is total shit. That no one is going to like it, that I’m a fraud, that I just need to quit while I’m ahead to avoid the criticism that invariably comes with putting yourself out there.

Before I decided on going through with self-publishing, I queried agents as aspiring writers often do. I got rejected quite a few times, but it didn’t much bother me. Rejection is part of the process. It happens and it happens a lot. However, now that I’m an “indie author,” the threat of rejection doesn’t rest on the shoulders of agents or publishers anymore.

There’s no one out there telling me I can’t publish a book. There are no gatekeepers in the indie author world. And that, I think, is what’s so scary. The only people who can reject you are your readers, the people whose opinions we, as writers, should care about the most. There’s no satisfaction in knowing that you are one of the Chosen Ones, plucked out of the slush pile and ushered into the golden halls of traditional publishing. There’s just you, your readers, and your writing.

It’s both incredibly freeing and incredibly, incredibly scary. Especially when you struggle with anxiety.

I was that kid in school. I cried a lot in the bathroom, I faked illness to get out of answering questions in class, I’d sink down in my seat in an attempt to make myself as small as possible when a teacher’s eyes swept over the room. Unless I absolutely knew the answer to a question, I would never raise my hand for fear of being seen as stupid. My brain would cook up these catastrophic scenarios that never actually happened (as if they ever do). It was like that scene in Carrie, where Carrie’s mom is trying to discourage her from going to the prom. They’re all going to laugh at you, they’re all going to laugh at you!

That’s what my brain was like all the way from first grade until now. I still hear that voice. Carrie’s mom. They’re all going to laugh at you. Too often, I find myself agreeing. Yes, I think they’re all going to laugh at me. They’re going to think I’m stupid so I should stop now and safe myself the embarrassment.

While my writing is one of the only things I’m confident about, I continually fall into that trap Carrie’s mom made for me. When I was younger, I struggled immensely with criticism. Most of the time, anyway. When I wasn’t crying over the fact that I got a B+ on a five paragraph essay I wrote in fourth grade, I was busy getting lunch detentions because I never did any of my homework. It made me feel bad about myself. I didn’t understand a lot of it. As a result, if it wasn’t reading or history or writing, I didn’t do it. I have dyscalculia–a learning disability in math–and a processing deficit. I don’t catch on as quickly as other people do. I can barely do basic math without the aid of a calculator or my fingers.

Looking “stupid” is something that happened to me a lot in grade school. I even had a few teachers punish me in front of the entire class for not knowing what 9 x 8 was. I grew up ashamed of myself for a variety of reasons. I never understood why I couldn’t do math like the other kids. I just knew I couldn’t and that I was very clearly lesser because of it. This feeling of being lesser, of being stupid has stayed with me for many years. It’s one of the reasons why I’m now so obsessed with being perfect.

Anything less is unacceptable and throws me into a panic.

So, what does this have to do with my writing? Everything. In my mind, I know not everyone is going to like my books. It’s just impossible. I don’t like every book I read–in fact, I hate quite a few of them–so I shouldn’t expect anything more from anyone else. People have different tastes. People have different opinions. People have different definitions of what’s good and what isn’t. I know that. In my heart of hearts, I know that. And it’s fine! I keep telling myself that it’s fine!

But it’s still so, so difficult for me to shake that voice. If they don’t like your book, you’re a failure and you should stop writing forever. You’re no good, you’re stupid, your dreams are never going to come true.

Even something as simple as “I didn’t like this scene” makes me want to puke a little. But all of that comes with the territory, doesn’t it? I should know, I complain about books I don’t like all the time. As my journey down the road of self-publishing continues, the only thing I can do is accept my imperfections. That voice in my head isn’t as powerful as my love of writing. Some people may not like what I do, and that’s fine. I can’t please everyone and I know I have to stop trying.

But, you know what? If one person–just one person–out there likes my books, if they discover something in them that’s worth while, then I’ll be satisfied. I’ll be satisfied despite that voice in my head, despite the nausea in my stomach.

My brain wants me to think that I’m a failure if I can’t please everyone.

The battle to realize that isn’t true is certainly a difficult one, but it’s one I know I can win.

I’ve had many blogs on this particular website over the course of my burgeoning writing career. None of them have stuck.

I’m hoping this one is different.

As you might have guessed from my fancy header, my name is Lex. I write YA novels about demons. They’re scary. They’re bloody. They’re fun. You can find out more about them here. Or here, if you’re so inclined.

The release of my first book is fast approaching (AAAAAAHHHH) and I can’t believe it’s actually happening. I’ll be writing about it on here, as well as a bunch of other things.

Sit down, stay awhile.

And join my mailing list if you want to hear more from me in the future.

Signing off,

Lex