So there I was in Target, shopping for chicken and peanut butter, when something terrifying popped up on my phone.
Publishers Weekly had just reviewed my new book. Not just online, but in print.
I froze. My heart started pounding. A cold jolt of adrenaline shot through me. Why? Because first off, in the world of a writer, this is officially a BIG THING.
Like, Tyrannosaurus-Rex-in-your-living-room big.
According to their own website, Publishers Weekly is “read by more than 68,000 booksellers, publishers, public and academic librarians, wholesalers, distributors, educators, agents and writers.”
So yeah, kinda big.
Second – is there any polite way to say this? – Publishers Weekly reviews are usually . . . harsh.
Not just a little hard-nosed. We’re talking authors-crying-drunk-in-the-rain harsh. PW reviews often skewer books with words like bland, immature, clumsy, and worse.
And these are usually books from bestselling authors, mind you. What kind of chance does a regular guy like me have?
These are the panicked, anguished thoughts racing around my brain as I’m frozen with fear in the middle of the peanut butter aisle.
But I couldn’t look away. I had to know. So . . . I clicked on the review:
Wait . . . they liked it? What? WHAT?!
Check it out for yourself: http://publishersweekly.com/978-1-63388-187-7
When my lovely wife and I realized the danger had passed, we started laughing and jumping up and down like idiots in the middle of Target.
Luckily, the security guards there are used to us.