Before I was published, writing fiction was something I did constantly in my spare time. Evenings, weekends and the halcyon era of regular naptimes during the day when my daughter was tiny were given over to coming up with new characters, agonising over plots and drafting word after feverish word.
I’ve always loved the writing process, but I hate showing my work to others until absolutely necessary. I managed to write all through my teenage years without showing it to anyone. Doing a masters in creative writing in my late twenties forced me to face the fear of critique head on. What was stopping me? Procrastination, of course. And what is procrastination if not fear’s lazier, more misunderstood cousin?
I was convinced that once I attained the holy grail of publication of a novel, fearlessness would materialise and settle comfortably around my shoulders – a bit like Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak – and I would treat fiction writing as a “proper” job, with regular hours, underpinned with an unshakeable confidence that would mark me out as a “real” writer.
The publication in 2024 of my debut novel Where They Lie, a crime novel set in the world of journalism in Dublin in the 1960s, was a wonderful experience, with some lovely reviews, festival appearances, an award nomination and ongoing support from booksellers and readers.
READ MORE
However, the truth is that since then, my writing process hasn’t changed much. I still write in the margins of the day – between school drop-off and pick-up, during quiet moments in the evenings and sometimes at weekends – and I still agonise over every word. Above all, the fear hasn’t left.
You might ask, fear of what? I suppose it’s of everything and nothing. There’s something inherently scary about pouring your heart into a novel – or any other creative endeavour – and then putting it out in the world. Especially if you’ve done it more than once. You might think it gets easier with each go; in fact, the opposite is true.
The lead-up to publication of my second novel, Among the Ruins, which is a sequel to Where They Lie and is set in Dublin in the summer of 1970, has been filled with trepidation. The writing itself was a joy: as coming up with a direct sequel meant that all those agonised-over characters and the atmosphere of that late 1960s/early 1970s newspaper setting were just waiting to be summoned off the pages and back to life. Nicoletta, the reporter-as-detective in my duology, who is a plucky amateur sleuth, certainly feels the fear and does it anyway, and tells the truth especially when it is most inconvenient to do so. She would have no time for pre-publication jitters.
But the nerves this time around have been far, far worse. I was so excited in the lead-up to my debut, the culmination of a decade of work, coupled with the relief that finally I was going to be published. It hits slightly different with the second one. With experience comes knowledge, and with knowledge comes awareness of the gap between. It’s like learning how to drive with L plates in your forties (if you know, you know). You’re all too aware of what could go wrong. And in steps our old friend, fear.
The American memoirist and novelist Elizabeth Gilbert says in Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, that she decided to just embrace fear as a necessary passenger on the creative journey. “In fact, it seems to me that my fear and my creativity are basically conjoined twins – as evidenced by the fact that creativity cannot take a single step forward without fear marching right alongside it,” she wrote. Imagine my relief when I read that? I felt seen, as the kids say. Who am I to argue with the creator of Eat, Pray, Love?
The fear didn’t disappear on becoming a published author, but I’ve heard anecdotally that it never does. Sometimes it gets incrementally worse, the heavier the weight of expectation. However, I’ve decided to rebrand my fear around publication as excitement. A friend told me that anxiety and excitement are processed by the body in the same way; it’s about reframing it in your head. Publication has succeeded in opening a whole new door for me, in finding my tribe of fellow writers and peers, at book launches, events and festivals, all at various stages of the publishing journey, all of whom more or less have the same sets of fears co-existing with their creativity.
I’ve since joined a very supportive WhatsApp group called the Irish Murderesses, comprised of published Irish female crime writers. Fear is the theme of an anthology of our short stories, which will be published on October 15th by Hachette Books Ireland, with proceeds going to Women’s Aid. Each writer has picked a personal fear as the focal point of their story.
Fear may be a universal human emotion, but the majority of crime fiction readers are women, and the explosion in popularity of Irish talent like Andrea Mara and Sam Blake within the domestic thriller genre shows us something about the gendered nature of fear. Perhaps we love reading about our worst fears come true as catharsis to help us process them. Not to mention the satisfaction as a reader – and also as a writer – of a perfectly redemptive ending.
As for me, I am learning to accept that nerves in the lead-up to publication are part and parcel of the job – as much as actually sitting down and getting the words on the page. Without my fear, the urge to write and the impulse to do something creative simply wouldn’t exist. I’m actively trying to take a leaf out of my no-nonsense protagonist Nicoletta’s book, asking myself what exactly it is I’m afraid of. After all, nobody ever died from a (hypothetical) bad review.
Among the Ruins by Claire Coughlan is published by Simon & Schuster UK
