There’s an innocence to writing a first novel that lays behind like a good intention. It is art for arts’ sake; one is following one’s bliss, heeding an innate prompting, and rallying the troops against the voice of self-doubt which whispers “you’ve never tried your hand, there’s no reason to embark upon this unless you’re going to be brilliant.”

Yet I wrote “A Portal in Time” just the same. I felt compelled to tell a story with a little bit of magic at its center because I think there is a sense of magic to the business of life. I really do. I’ve always sensed there is a hidden reality that parallels the ordinary, and a passion of mine is exploring the subject.

When I devised “A Portal in Time,” I wanted to make a point. I wanted to write the book I’d like to find: one with beauty and fluid grace tinged with the uncanny that also possessed a question. My intention was for the reader to ask themselves what it is they believe. That is the life-force of “A Portal in Time” in its entirety. I crafted the story and sent it out into the world to find its own way, although the act has simultaneously been a tutorial in the mechanics of promotion according to the edicts of this cyberspace society.

I’ve been thoroughly gratified in the reviews of my book. Many have gathered its spirit and that was my aspiration. It is enough for me at this delicate juncture in my chosen career, and it gives me something to build upon.

But one review was scathing: the vitriol, the holier than thou slander from a complete stranger who found the book so distasteful, she never read past the first few chapters. I was momentarily taken aback until I started thinking “this review can’t be only about this book.” It was disproportionate to any literary crime I could have committed.

The review ended up being a gift. When I unfurrowed my brow, I started thinking about the courage of conviction, the willingness to follow through with an idea and not be deterred by the bad chance of a stranger’s need to hold forth in judgment (which can be more telling of the reviewer than the book reviewed.)

I think a writer has to be prepared for both sides of the fence and to recommit to innocence—that pure space within that urges a writer to create without thought of outcome. If a writer can show up, do the work, retain the joy of the process then let go, then they can watch their reviews swim by like fish in a tank and realize they can’t please everybody.

http://www.clairefullerton.com/