No matter how well-prepared you are, there is no way to know how people are going to respond to the thing you’ve put out into the world. In my case, most recently, a book.
When I started prepping for the publication of I’m Mostly Here to Enjoy Myself last winter, I had a solid sense of the questions I thought people were going to ask me. I’ve worked in media for a long time, and also this is not my first book.
I assumed I’d be asked about the sex. And probably be on the receiving end of some tsk tsking along the way. (Correct on both fronts.) I thought I’d be asked about age and friendship, and enjoyment. And I figured there would be some discussion about the cover. And likely some politics. Check check check. (Actually, to be very transparent, when I say assumed I really mean hoped because you actually never know if anyone will be interested in what you are saying or writing; there is, with any book, the very real possibility no one will want to talk about you, or it, at all.)
There is one question I didn’t anticipate, though perhaps I should have, and I continue to be asked at nearly every reading, and during all my interviews, including this week at The Red Wheelbarrow in Paris:
Could this book could have taken place in another city? And if so, which one? And how would it have been different?
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Good Decisions to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.