Author therapy

Authors worry. A lot.

Will I get a publisher? How big an advance? What if I don’t get a publisher? Is this the right title? No really, is this the right title? Does my writing suck? Is my idea commonplace? Am I the right person to write this? Do I need a coauthor? Do I need a ghostwriter? Will this work pay off? Why does this matter so much to me? Why do I use so many em-dashes? Can I keep them? Why won’t the publisher respond to my emails? Why is the pub date so far off? Do I have to live with their ugly cover art? How can I promote this? How can I get more speeches? Should I try to get on the bestseller list? Another book came out that competes with me, what should I do? I’m depressed about politics, how can I concentrate? My spouse and children are missing me, how do I cope?

Am I really an author?

I don’t do therapy

But I do care.

When I told my wife that it sometimes seems like a lot of my work as an editor, ghostwriter, or writing coach is therapy, she asked “Do you charge for that?”

No, I don’t.

But the fact is that authors are working on something they really, really care about. Often, this is the first time they’ve written a book, and everything about it is new and confusing. Of course they are anxious, insecure, and frustrated.

I often think about the hard-nosed, high-powered author I worked with who wrote a book about how pointless and self-indulgent it was for managers to whine about work — and then called me to whine for an hour about his publisher. If it gets to him, it gets to everyone.

On paper, my job is to help you get your book published and make it as successful as possible. That sounds like it’s about a thing, not a person. But what it takes to create that thing means that of course there will be emotional elements to it.

So I listen and provide counsel. I understand. I motivate. Failing to do so would make my advice one-dimensional, insensitive, and ineffective.

As far therapy goes, I think my model is the Harrison Ford character in the Apple TV+ series “Shrinking.” He’s crusty, tough, and experienced. He tells it like it is and takes no shit. But he does understand that people have emotions and they’re part of the equation — and he manifests a sort of hard-bitten empathy. Yeah, that’s me.

I’m not your therapist. I don’t take health insurance. I don’t do 50-minute hours. I’m impatient with talk about your mother, your lover, or your children. I worry about what’s best for the book first, not what’s best for your emotional health.

But listening and understanding is part of my job. I charge for the advice, and that’s part of it.

Because authors are people who need help. I never forget that.