Book Publishing Wants Your Trauma! (Ukraine War Edition)
A Literal Literary Loser Lacks Language
I sold my first book, a Regency romance entitled “The Fictitious Marquis” to Avon Books in 1993. Twenty-nine years ago, what mattered was the quality of the story and writing, followed by whether or not the author was pleasant to work with. I tried my best to be delightful.
These days, I still try my best to be delightful. But, these days, publishers care less about how delightful I am in person, and more about how delightful I am on-line.
The majority of agents and editors, in addition to caring about the quality of your writing, care about the quantity of your social media presence. (I know that’s an awkwardly structured sentence, but I was trying to be clever… in addition to being delightful.)
Publishers are no longer just selling your book. They are selling you. They are selling your story. And, preferably, your trauma. (I learned all about it from my college-age son. Anything I tell him about me or my parents ends with, “That’s a lot of inter-generational trauma to unpack.” Seems college students love unpacking inter-generational trauma.)
I’ll be honest, when it came to selling my last novel, “The Nesting Dolls,” I sold my own personal history of immigrating from the Soviet Union along with the book. My book talks are full of stories about traveling across Europe as a refugee, as well as the process of assimilating into America. (This particular traumatic tale is always a big hit.)
I was planning to do the same with my upcoming novel.
But that was before reality intervened. With my last two books, I was talking about the graveyard that was the former Soviet Union - Russia, Ukraine - of the past.
That was before Odessa, the city I lived in up through the age of seven, the one my parents grew up in, the one my mother and I re-visited in 1988, the one my parents took my son to see when he was 12, was under attack. (They visited the catacombs that had been used during World War II. They’re being used again today.)
I write historical fiction. But new history is being written every day.
And I’m being asked about it. In person and over Zoom. Some people politely inquire if I’m OK to talk about it. Others just burst in with questions. They want to hear my story. They want to hear my trauma.
Just like publishers do.
Trauma sells books. If you can tie your personal story to the one you’re peddling, you’ll get readers interested. You’ll get the press interested. You’ll get coverage. You’ll get bookings. You’ll get sales.
I am a literal literary loser trying to relaunch a stalled writing career. Seems like I just got lucky!
I don’t feel lucky.
Here’s what I do feel, though: I feel like an interloper. I feel like a fraud.
Yes, I am very upset by what’s going on in Ukraine. But this isn’t about me. It’s about people who are actually suffering in a very direct way. This isn’t my trauma.
I am being asked to say something, when I have nothing to say. Nothing that I think would do any good, anyway. Nothing productive. Nothing that would help those who are under siege. And that’s the only thing that should matter now.
Is there inter-generational trauma that needs unpacking at the moment, as my son would say? Probably. But is it primary?
No, it is not.
Me saying something isn’t important now. But if me saying something turns the spotlight onto what actually does matter, then I am willing to say it.
Even if I have nothing to say.
I’m not the only one. This Saturday, March 26 at 4 PM Eastern, as part of the SMOL Virtual Book Fair, I will be moderating a panel of three other Russian-speaking, Soviet-born writers who don’t know what to say, either. But we’re all hoping that saying something might do something to help someone.
Words feel very inadequate right now. But if our words might spur action, then we are obliged to try. Trauma be damned.