The night before my first in-person author event, I tried to stay as busy as possible. I worked, watched distracting shows, and made graphics for social media. Basically, anything that might keep me from thinking too hard about what I had agreed to do.
I took the muscle relaxer that usually helps me sleep, but I still tossed and turned. I felt like Owen Wilson in Armageddon when he says he is 98 percent excited and 2 percent scared, or maybe 2 percent excited and 98 percent scared. That was me. I knew both feelings were in there somewhere, but I could not have told you which one was winning.
Since I am nocturnal, I woke up around noon the next day. I was more nauseous than usual and immediately started trying to get everything ready: my outfit, makeup, nausea medication, books, pens, markers, and bookmarks. I checked everything more than once because my brain had apparently decided this was the moment to stop trusting itself.
My partner and I finally left for the bookstore. The drive was about forty minutes, so I put on a Charli xcx playlist and sang the entire way there. Singing is one of the best ways I have found to calm my nervous system, and I was going to need all the help I could get.
When we arrived, it felt like there was a bowling ball sitting in my stomach. I was already dragging, so I walked around the bookstore for a while and acquired an iced latte, which was probably not the most logical treatment for anxiety and nausea, but it felt necessary.
Then it was almost time for me to be introduced.
I waited backstage and peeked out at the audience. There were about ten people, and a few of them were cradling my book in their arms.
My book.
That part still does not feel real.
I had prepared several sections to read and practiced them ahead of time, but I had not actually timed any of it. We had promoted the event as a reading, signing, and Q&A, so I assumed people would have questions and that the conversation would fill the rest of the hour.
I came out, said hello, and told everyone I would begin with a reading.
For the first few minutes, I shakily read the opening paragraphs of Hiding Lies. I had somehow forgotten exactly how dark the beginning was, so I might reconsider starting with that section in the future.
As I sat there reading, terrified and sick to my stomach, one thought became very clear:
I never wanted to do another event again.
I finished the first section and tried asking if anyone had questions.
No one answered.
I read another passage, this time from Adam’s point of view. I had not prepared anything to say about it, but I started explaining what I had been thinking while writing the scene. That broke the silence a little, but when I looked at the time, it was only 7:20.
I had no idea what I was supposed to do next.
I asked again if anyone had questions.
Crickets.
Then my partner, bless his heart, called out, “Why don’t you talk about how you wrote it?”
Something immediately changed.
I began telling everyone about the life of Hiding Lies, how the story had developed, and everything that had gone into making the book. As I spoke, I saw people smiling and nodding. My nerves started to fall away.
Questions came. Then comments. Then more questions.
What followed was forty-five minutes of an intimate, incredible conversation with readers.
People told me that my book had made them feel seen and understood. One woman in particular shared that she had experienced feelings similar to the ones I had while writing it. It was incredibly brave of her to say that in a room full of people.
I have never experienced a connection like that before.
I definitely want to experience it again.
By the end of the night, I had gone from thinking I would never do another event to immediately understanding why authors keep doing them, even when they are difficult, exhausting, expensive, and terrifying.
I am going to keep trying to arrange events, beginning here in the Pacific Northwest, where I live. I would also love to do one larger event or small tour each year. My health and finances will always have to be a major part of those decisions, and I have to be realistic about what I can manage.
But I am so grateful that I was finally able to give Hiding Lies the event it deserved.
I got to talk openly about what the book means to me. I got to hear what it meant to readers. I got to nerd out about Small Town Slasher, slashers, horror, and writing with people who genuinely wanted to be there.
For the first twenty minutes, I thought the night was confirming every fear I had.
Instead, it became one of the most meaningful experiences I have had as an author.
