The fatigue of defending what you have created

Finishing a novel should feel like closing a door.

After months, sometimes years, of writing, editing, doubting, and revisiting the same pages, you imagine that a certain calm will arrive upon publication. That the book, finally, will begin to walk on its own.

But it doesn't happen that way.

Publishing a novel doesn't mean the work is over.

It means starting another kind of work.

One that is less literary, more visible, and, at times, considerably more abrasive.

When the book comes out, the phase of explaining it, presenting it, recommending it, summarizing it, defending it, and reminding people time and again that it exists begins. You have to talk about it on social media, send it to the press, contact bookstores, prepare presentations, request interviews, and look for new ways to say the same thing without sounding like you are always saying the same thing.

At first, all of this is even exciting.

After so much time working in silence, you want to show the results. There is a thrill in sharing the cover, announcing the publication date, explaining how the story was born, or introducing the characters.

The problem arises when that promotion stops being a celebration and becomes a permanent obligation.

Because a book disappears very quickly.

For a few weeks, it is a new release. Then come other launches, other covers, other authors, and other campaigns. Attention shifts and, suddenly, a novel you invested several years in seems old just because it has been out for a few months.

Then you feel you must push it again.

You share a review.

You dig up a photo from a presentation.

You post a quote from the book.

You talk about the research.

You remind everyone it is still available for purchase.

And, as you do so, an uncomfortable feeling emerges: the sense of constantly begging for attention.

It is not always easy to distinguish between promoting a work and justifying yourself for having written it.

Sometimes you fear being too pushy.

Other times you think you aren't being pushy enough.

You see authors who post daily, participate in events, appear in the media, and manage to keep their novels visible for months. And you wonder if you should be doing more.

It always feels like more could be done.

More videos.

More posts.

More contacts.

More presentations.

More time dedicated to reminding people the book is still there.

This is one of the great drains of publishing: the feeling that you can never fully abandon a work.

While you are writing the next novel, you still have to uphold the previous one. While you are editing a new manuscript, you must keep talking about the published book. And while you try to recover the desire to write, a part of you remains trapped in the promotion.

The work is finished, but the responsibility for it is not.

There is also another fatigue, one that is harder to explain.

The fatigue of hearing opinions.

When a novel is published, it stops belonging entirely to you. Each reader interprets it in their own way. Some are moved by scenes you considered secondary. Others overlook what took you weeks to resolve. There are those who point out errors, those who question decisions, and those who explain what, in their view, you should have written.

That is part of the craft.

Publishing implies accepting that you no longer control the reading experience.

But accepting it doesn't mean it's always easy.

The novel can receive praise and yet, a single criticism can stay spinning in your head for days. It can sell well and still feel like not enough. It can receive good reviews and not reach the visibility you expected.

And so you defend it again.

You explain that it was researched.

That certain events happened just like that.

That a particular narrative decision was conscious.

That the character had to behave that way.

Though, in reality, a book shouldn't need the author to stand eternally by its side explaining it.

At some point, it should stand on its own.

But reaching that point doesn't always depend solely on quality.

It depends on distribution, promotion, bookstores, the media, recommendations, the timing of its release, and that strange mix of work, opportunity, and luck that surrounds the publishing world.

That is why defending a novel can be exhausting.

Not because you stop believing in it, but precisely because you believe in it too much.

Because you know how much work it contains.

Because you remember every sacrifice, every night spent writing, and every doubt.

Because you feel that if you stop talking about the book, it will disappear.

Perhaps one of the hardest lessons of the craft is understanding that defending a work doesn't mean always talking about it.

It is also defending it by never stopping writing.

By building a career.

By trusting that some books find their readers slowly.

By accepting that not everything can be measured in the first few weeks.

And by understanding that a novel doesn't fail just because it isn't constantly at the center of the conversation.

There are books that make noise upon release and are soon forgotten.

Others move slowly, from reader to reader, almost in silence.

Perhaps publishing also consists of learning to let go.

In accompanying the work for a time, giving it every possible chance, and then allowing it to find its own path.

Even if it’s hard.

Even if we feel it still needs us to go out and defend it.

Even if, looking back, we still see not just a book, but everything we left inside it.

Do you think a writer should talk about their books constantly, or do you prefer to discover them more naturally?

Thank you for being there on the other side of the screen.

We’ll read each other next week.

Antonio de Rosa