The Seduction of Words

The Seduction of Words

Imagine this: you've just finished writing your magnum opus. The manuscript is polished, the cover art is stunning, and the pages are brimming with insightful ideas, compelling characters, and vivid settings. But as the book hits the shelves, there's something crucial to remember: readers and media alike aren't just interested in the book itself. They want to know about the person behind it.

The Magic of Human Connection

When was the last time you saw a book sitting on a talk show couch? Or heard it chattering away on a podcast? Exactly. It's the author that steps into the spotlight. Why? Because humans crave connection. We want to hear the stories behind the stories, understand the inspiration, and get a glimpse into the life of the person who penned the words we love.

Books, no matter how brilliant, are static objects. They can't engage in a conversation, share a laugh, or shed a tear. Authors, on the other hand, bring the pages to life with their personalities, experiences, and unique perspectives. This human element is what makes interviews compelling and memorable.

Your Story is Just as Important as Your Book

Consider Trevor Noah. His memoir, "Born a Crime," captivated millions, but it was his personal story—growing up in apartheid South Africa, navigating the challenges of mixed-race identity, and ultimately achieving international fame as a comedian and host of "The Daily Show"—that added depth to his narrative and inspired countless fans.

When authors share their journeys, struggles, and triumphs, they create a richer context for their work. It allows readers to form a deeper connection, not just with the book, but with the author as a person. This connection can turn casual readers into dedicated fans who eagerly await your next release.

Crafting Your Narrative

So, how do you make sure you're ready to be the author everyone wants to interview?

Be Authentic.  Authenticity resonates. Share your genuine experiences and emotions. If writing your book was a struggle, talk about it. If it brought you joy, let that shine through.

Know Your Talking Points. Be prepared with key points about your book and your personal story. What inspired you to write it? What challenges did you face? What do you hope readers take away from it? 

Engage With Your Audience. Whether it's through social media, book signings, or speaking engagements, connect with your readers. Respond to their questions, share insights, and show appreciation for their support.

Stay Relatable. Even if you've achieved significant success, remember your roots. Share stories that readers can relate to—your early writing days, your favorite books growing up, or even your writing rituals.

Embrace the Spotlight. It's natural to feel nervous about interviews but remember that this is an opportunity to share your passion. Practice makes perfect, so take every chance to hone your skills and become more comfortable in front of an audience.

The Power of Personal Connection

In the end, it's the personal connection that elevates a book from a mere collection of words to a meaningful experience. Readers want to know the person behind the prose, the creator behind the characters. They want to hear your voice, feel your enthusiasm, and understand your perspective.

So, as you step into the world of book promotion, remember: no one wants to interview a book. They want to interview you, the author. Embrace it, enjoy it, and let your story shine as brightly as the words you've written.

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And Now a Creative Non-Fiction Break

The Seduction of Words

By Liz Dubelman

I love the word on the page. I love writers. I think there is nothing sexier than a well-crafted phrase — a phrase that says exactly how I feel better than I could ever express it. I married a writer. We’ve been married five years and have a child.  It’s not always easy being married to a writer. For one thing, sometimes there’s money and sometimes there’s art. This can be very stressful.

I talked to my sister (married for ten years to a writer, with three kids) and she told me about her stress-busting concept: take a mini-vacation by taking lessons in something that is not part of your normal life.  She said she took a kayaking lesson on the Connecticut River and she was able to transcend herself for half a day and still be home for dinner.  

I signed up for a cooking-with-chocolate class taught by a really famous chef.  The class did not have the desired effect.  I didn’t learn much because I thought the instructor was a jerk.  He was mean to all his assistants, and he had an overfamiliarity with the techniques and ingredients that made it all inaccessible to me. At one point he told an anecdote that, from his delivery, I could tell he told at every class, about having dinner with a group of food historians who were arguing over the date of the first recorded recipe for pecan pie. Then he asked the class for guesses. I instantly guessed, “The turn of the century.” He replied that we’d just had a turn of the century — did I mean that one? (Turned out I was right, 1899 or so was the answer.) Needless to say, this was no mini-vacation. I found being taunted by a pompous ass to be extra stressful.

So, I signed up for a writing class. I thought I would take my shot at turning that special phrase, maybe even more than one. My father, brother, husband, and brother-in-law are all writers. I decided that I would not be intimidated by my family legacy; rather, I’d embrace it.

I loved the class. I did all the assignments and read everything to the class despite my anxiety about reading in front of people. I really enjoyed myself and I thought the stories I wrote were decent, some even good.  It was going, I thought, very well. 

Last week, our assignment was to write a story about a character who was driven to do something – to take some action – because of a piece of music. My first idea was to write about a guy who knows he has a great song in him and just can’t get it out, but when I sat down to write, a very different story came out.  

My writing schedule is this: Wednesday and Thursday I think about the assignment. Friday night I start to write. Saturday I finish the story and leave it for my husband to read. Sunday we edit it, fix the spelling and grammar, and tighten it up. It’s a great part of the process. We stay up late and laugh. I’m never sensitive about his suggestions, nor do I ever feel that I have to take them just because they’re his. It’s like we’re colleagues – just two writers bonding. Monday I leave for last-minute changes that I never make. Tuesday is the class. Last week I was a bit off and didn’t start until Saturday. That shouldn’t matter but, like any writer, I reserve the right to use any excuse.  

The story I ended up writing was about how art sometimes doesn’t leave room for real life, and about how sometimes, after doing the things you need to do to survive, there isn’t anything left over for art. I explored the emotional relationship of my brother and his wife, who lived this reality and in the end, chose to struggle rather than live segmented lives. I honestly wasn’t in love with this story, but I didn’t think it was bad. I finished it, left it for my husband to read and went to sleep. About half an hour later, he woke me up.  

Even in the dark, I could see on his face the story didn’t work and in a split second, all of my insecurities organized a coup d’etat in my brain. “What?” I blurted.  “It sucks?”  He motioned me into his office like a principal pulling a student out of class. Paul’s office is very small. There are only two places to sit, one on either side of the desk. I sat with slightly rounded shoulders on the student side, in the decidedly less comfortable chair.  Finally, he spoke. “It just doesn’t work.  It’s not bad writing, it’s just not a story.”

My brain went ping.  In a loud challenging voice, I read him all the lines that, I claimed, “worked.” As I read to him line by line in this strident tone, I realized that my emotions were on an E-Ticket ride. Anger choked me.  Insecurity twisted my arm and made me silently scream “Uncle.” Sadness and self-pity overcame me. And, somewhere in the middle of this dramatic reading, I identified this irrational feeling. I’d had it a few years back when I was trying to conceive and the doctors put me on Lupron, a drug that sent me reeling into temporary menopause. 

After finishing my senseless tantrum, I looked up from the paper into my husband’s eyes and what I saw was massive confusion. He wasn’t prepared for my reaction. He thought I was in the middle of a psychotic break and he was making a mental list of things to do if I got worse. I remembered that I didn’t even really like the piece, but I was in too deep now so I cried. I cried because I was acting crazy without the excuse of drugs. I cried because I freaked out my husband. I cried because I let down my family legacy. I cried because I would have nothing to hand in on Tuesday.  

With tears still streaming down my face, I walked into my office and angrily banged out a second piece, typing so hard that my husband thought I was writing him a fuck you letter. This second story was short and funny, with no emotional resonance to me. It was pure fiction, designed strictly for entertainment value, and it was well-received.  

Yet, now, at two twenty in the morning, I wonder, does this work? Is this a story? And those questions have become a Greek chorus commanding me to write another piece just so I don’t have another attack.