Publication is always a thrilling yet stomach-churning experience for me. I love releasing my work into the wild, but I dread what will happen next. Mostly, I’m waiting to hear from “that guy.” I don’t have a specific “that guy” in mind. He’s more of an archetype; a self-taught scholar who becomes filled with righteous rage whenever a writer doesn’t meet his criteria for good work. See, if the writer doesn’t get a piece exactly right, it’s a slap in the face for “that guy.” Seething in his attic apartment, he hammers out a persnickety e-mail or letter explaining how I failed him.
Then, when I finally sneak up on him and spin his chair around… IT’S ME!
Or Hitler. It varies.