I am sat in my room. The same one I have occupied since childhood. Who am I? It wasn’t a question I asked myself often. At least not since my considerable success as an author.
I turned a copy of my book over in my hands. This book was my one and only triumph in life. And now I was questioning it all.
The book, my book was a work of non fiction, ‘Venomous Snakes of Britain’. It wasn’t a long book, but it was still a book. Being honest the text itself was only a single page encased between two sides of the hard cover. There was a foreword though so that was another page and some printer details on a separate page and a blank page at the end. For effect. It was my idea. I was proud of it. I’m not even British, but I have been to London. Nonetheless, the non-fiction ‘Venomous Snakes of Britain’, was a best seller.
There is, in case you didn’t know, only one venomous snake in Britain. I want to be transparent. I didn’t know that when I started my research. I just had the urge to create, to make a contribution to society, to knowledge. I thought there might be two or three venomous snakes in Britain. At least that is the story I now tell myself.
I researched that book. I went beyond the second page of the Google search. I did not use AI, except for the picture above the half page of writing. Nor was it just Wikipedia repurposed. I went to two other websites as well.
I actually also did a writers retreat and no one there commented about my topic in a negative way. In fact they were all very encouraging, and that retreat itself cost me $15,000. My publisher, a family friend, was really encouraging, as was my agent, a cousin on my mothers side, whose previous clients were an actress and an IG influencer.
I put my heart and soul into this book. It is still better and longer than anything I did at school. I sat down at the time and carefully crafted a paragraph or two around the habits and habitat of Britain’s only venomous snake. And then I handed it over to my agent and publisher who released it to the world.
It was a bestseller, number one on the New York Times list or Amazon or whatever. I sold millions of copies. People loved it. Critics reviewed it and commented on my ‘uncanny ability to make the page seem longer than it was.’ Some were mean and called it more of a leaflet than a book, but buyers were undeterred. I had 5 stars on Goodreads, not a single bad review. I call myself an author because I am.
Or so I thought, until today.
Today was my fathers funeral. We are not a sentimental family, the whole thing was more of a business gathering. Neither of my siblings were present. They lead idle lives and were partying somewhere else. It was left to me, the one who had actually achieved something with her life, to do the hard work. I had to choose what to wear, the stylist gave me two options. It was not my usual stylist so the whole thing was quite difficult.
But now my whole self image has come falling down. I have ventured further into this house than ever before. This house, that I spent so much time in, going from swimming pool to my room, from tennis court to my room and occasionally to another room to eat, also sometimes the cinema room and well the other useful rooms with games and stuff. I knew there were parts of this house I never ventured into but what I have found there is unexpected.
Hundreds and hundreds, if not thousands of copies of my book. Had no one really bought it? Had I been this naïve?
I have done a book tour, I have spoken about my ‘author journey’ at conferences. Readers have written to me telling how good the book was, how they enjoyed it. How it changed their lives? Those few paragraphs that I scrawled down after a google search one afternoon, with a picture generated by AI somehow touched people. Those words, those actions, that afternoon of dedicated work, that process changed my life. I was suddenly successful in my own right.
Before then I wasn’t really into books, I can’t recall reading one after the age of 9, but somehow, against the odds, I became an author. I did something of which I could be proud. I created something. It was more than either of my siblings ever did. I could have done nothing and just lived off the trust fund, instead I aimed to make a contribution to the world, to achieve, to be successful in my own right.
It could not be a lie. The paparazzi chased me down, I gave whole interviews to press about my process. The British adder was and is my spirit animal, although I’ve never seen one and am careful only to visit London if I go to Britain, and even then only the good parts. But I have a scented candle somewhere that is ‘adder’ scented.
None of it makes sense, the whole house filled with copies of my book, as if the sales were not organic, As if my success was not real.
It has shattered my sense of self. And now I sit here with a decision to make, reality staring me in the face.
I must be rational and do the only rational thing. I am having all the rooms closed off, never to be opened, and I am going back out into the world, a successful author. I will never think otherwise ever again.
A Tuesday Latte 