April 21, 2022

Dear Reader,

I began the WE ARE THE LIGHT book tour in September of 2022 with a panic attack outside of the Norfolk airport. The paranoid part of me wanted to bail on the whole adventure, but, eventually, the heroic me found a way to go inside, have a curative laugh with a kind woman in the TSA line, board an airplane, and then go on to speak at many events in thirteen different states over the next six months.

I did my last Avid Reader Press-related gig in Powder Springs, Georgia on April 11th with the fantastic Book Worm Bookstore. No panic attack at the airport this time around. It was an outdoor live interview on a heavenly spring evening with warm-hearted folks who welcomed me into their community and made me remember why I started sending out words in the first place—to connect with others. All of the many events in between that first-step panic attack and my time in Powder Springs were life-affirming in their own ways. The whole tour was exceptionally good for me and my mental health. I'm so glad I said yes to life. And I think it's important to let people know that it's not only okay to—but actually imperative that—we find ways to participate while we struggle through mental health issues.

It's also important to let others know that they are not alone.

At several of these literary festivals and events, I spent time with a wide range of authors: first-time and self-published all the way up to bestsellers, an Oprah pick, a National Book Award finalist, and more. At cocktail parties, strolling through rain under umbrellas, in green rooms, seated at palm-tree-shaded hotel breakfast tables, in the backseats of transportation vehicles, and even on beach chairs, we all had conversations about modern publishing and the strange realities of "being a writer."

For the most part, novelists are lovely people. And no matter how accomplished we writers become, there will be little tells about our confidence levels: nervous talking before walking out onto a stage, sweating, drinking too much during an event, foot tapping, compulsively checking phones, hijacking conversations, awkwardly giving the sales pitch before it is actually time to give the sales pitch, etc. Regardless of how polished we may present to our readers, writers are generally a neurotic bunch, which means we understand a thing or two about discomfort.

When experienced writers gather face-to-face in the real world—in spite of our neuroses—we usually try to make each other feel better. There is almost always a supportive—even caretaking—vibe. When one of us does our best to honestly answer a question on a panel, we can usually count on a nod or a smile or a kind word from a fellow author. I've witnessed this instant camaraderie again and again over the past few months.

Writers hope an audience will pay money for the privilege of reading our thoughts. I've often marveled at the arrogance it takes to believe that one's carefully arranged words could be so prized. I imagine there's a psychological system of checks and balances at play. Writers must fully invest in the belief that our work is valuable or else we wouldn't be able to produce anything. But when we leave the solitude of our writing spaces, a necessary recalibration takes place, or, at least, that has been my experience.

Most of the writers with whom I've shared stages are on the same page, which reads something like: Despite the fact that we've all worked hard and have taken risks, none of us definitively knows how we ended up in this privileged position tonight. The mystery is, perhaps, best acknowledged with something akin to humility. So let's at least attempt to take care of each other while we're together.

At these literary festivals, another wonderful surprise kept happening. The authors I met were a diverse bunch: different races, genders, and sexual orientations, as well as seemingly disparate origin stories. And yet, through the discussion of our books, we found commonalities in real time and in front of live audiences. Those experiences felt medicinal. The best literature connects us through our shared sense of humanity, rather than divides.

I usually Google the other writers before attending these events. Of course, everyone seems so polished and together on their websites and social media accounts. I consider myself to be a pretty intuitive guy who can quickly read people in real life. But I am absolutely terrible at reading people on-line.

One-hundred percent of the time, I like people better in person. And the general gist of an Internet profile almost never fully resembles the person I shake hands with in the real world. Most of the time, people don't even look like their author photos. I think maybe we've been taught to edit out all of our more human quirks. We'd never post a photo of us sweating before an event or nervously checking in with the kids on our cellphone or sadly watching a fellow author's signing line grow while ours shrinks. And in doing so, I believe that we strip away much of our humanity in the process. Maybe I'm odd, but when I see a colleague's vulnerabilities, wrinkles, and worries, I start to care about them a little more than I'll ever care about their curated on-line avatars.

(Here's a picture of Alicia and me at a library fundraiser in Fort Lauderdale. It was April 1st and I was a little worried that someone would pull an April Fool's Day joke on the dozen writers present. Thankfully, that didn't happen.)

During my brief Oscars stint I was around some of the most famous people in the world, and—behind the scenes—they were socially anxious, too. In some cases, extremely so.

Socially anxious people often thrive in extraordinary ways. I've wondered if the anxiety is a kind of fuel. And if so, why do most of us spend so much time trying to hide it?

When I read on-line profiles and scroll through social media feeds, I feel terribly alone. When I meet these same people in the real world, it's almost always a brighter story.

Whenever an accomplished writer nervous-talks at me before an event or complains about how hot it is in the room or has too many glasses of wine at the cocktail party or lists accolades instead of saying hello or breaks away to spend some time alone in the bathroom or taps a foot furiously, I tell myself, Yes, these are my people. Because I have many times done all of those things too. And then I feel part of the human herd again.

When we practice loving others, quirks and all, we can begin to love our quirky selves. And I think it's the love that makes life a little easier.

Events are still a bit challenging for me—especially here in sobriety—even after all the analysis. But I've learned that events are also good for my mental health. We all need to stay connected in real life. We need to experience the best efforts and limitations of others in real time. And as long as the bartender keeps my placebo drinks—club soda and lime on the rocks, please—coming, I usually do pretty well and leave psychologically better off for having participated.

How will you leave your comfort zone and participate this month?

Bonus words:

Virginia Festival Of the Book - Finding The Light: Bestsellers Panel

Writers Talking Podcast with Matthew Quick

Okay, friends.

Until the 21st of May 2023, please remember that wherever you are in the world, whatever your current battle may be, your man in Coastal NC is sending you good vibes. Always.

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MATTHEW

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