Zibby Mag

By Patty Lin

It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and I’ve just finished doing two hours of radio interviews to promote my debut book. I’m wearing podcast headphones, a full face of makeup (even though there’s no video), and a shirt that is now streaked with flop sweat. Too much coffee burns my otherwise empty stomach, but I reflexively bring my cup to my lips like a junkie.

I almost had to reschedule these interviews when a jagged-edged shape suddenly appeared in my vision a half-hour before I was set to record. I ran to the bedroom in a panic and shook my husband awake.

“I need to go to the ER. I think I’m having a retinal tear.”

The thought of spending the day in a hospital waiting room was only slightly less awful than the thought of inconveniencing the radio hosts. But thankfully, the shape disappeared after a few minutes. My husband did some Googling, and we deduced that it wasn’t a retinal tear, just a visual migraine brought on by anxiety.

Why, you may wonder, am I feeling so anxious when my book’s publication should be a joyous event? Well, mostly because talking about myself makes me uncomfortable.

This may sound strange coming from someone who has written a memoir, a book that puts much of my life on display. Even my literary agent pointed out this contradiction when I told him I was a “private person.”

“And yet you wrote a memoir and got it published. How do you square that?”

My agent always asks good questions. This is one I’ve been trying to answer over the past few months. I wrote an honest (some have said brutally honest) account of the most intimate experiences in my life. Clearly, there’s a part of me that wants to be seen. But it feels like that part is trying to make her entrance while another part is cowering in the wings, on the verge of a heart attack.

Where does this contradiction come from? As with most neurotic tendencies: childhood. As the daughter of Taiwanese immigrants, I was raised with a set of values that were often contradictory.

The doozy of them all: You must be exceptional, but you shouldn’t stand out. Hence, the Asian stereotype of the overachiever who keeps her head down. One was expected to get flawless grades, win awards, and be outstanding in every possible way—without drawing attention to oneself. If that sounds impossible, it is.

I know from speaking with other authors that the discomfort of promoting a book isn’t solely an Asian thing; it’s a writer thing. Most writers are introverts. Growing up quiet and shy is what led many of us to develop our penchant for self-expression through the written word. Writing stories—specifically, Boy George fan fiction—got me through the early 1980s, when I was enduring the lonely years of middle school. My best friend was my spiral notebook. In its pages, I was no longer a gawky prepubescent with a poodle perm. I was a glamorous young woman who went clubbing with George at the Palladium, or I was his lovesick wife who wandered the halls of our London flat while he toured the world. As far as coping mechanisms go, you could do a lot worse. I eventually managed to make a career out of writing. (Not about Boy George, but still.)

Being introverted is a big plus when you’re writing a book. The task involves an inordinate amount of sitting alone in a room, which introverts love to do. But there has always been societal pressure to be extroverted—outgoing is always a compliment—and never have I felt this pressure more keenly than now, as I prepare to go on a book tour.

The paradox is that you must be introverted to write a book, but you must be extroverted to promote one. Sound familiar?

Television writers feel this pressure, too. When I was writing for shows, I had to pitch story ideas or jokes to rooms full of people. I dreaded pitching for the same reason I get nervous about book publicity interviews. I’m not quick on my feet. I need time to think, to craft my sentences. Even when I think I’ve done okay in an interview, I will find myself reviewing the conversation hours, days, or weeks later, and that’s when the perfect answer to a question will pop into my head—the thing I wish I had said.

It takes a certain kind of personality to thrive when put on the spot. The rest of us are left with varying degrees of performance anxiety. I have many memories of choking under pressure and failing spectacularly. There was the piano competition where my fingers froze above the keys, unable to play the notes I had memorized and practiced hundreds of times. The audition for a summer theater program where I blanked on my Cat on a Hot Tin Roof monologue before I’d even uttered the first line (in a terrible Southern accent, I might add). The internship interview where I showed up woefully unprepared and was sent away after five minutes. The TV show staffing meeting where I spoke ill of a movie, not knowing that my prospective boss had produced it.

When I get in front of a microphone or an audience to talk about my book, all these memories come along for the ride, reminding me that failure and humiliation might be just around the bend. The result, if not a total meltdown, is a feeling of self-consciousness.

Writing a memoir takes a great deal of self-awareness, and that quality is often what gives a memoir depth and candor. But self-consciousness is doing us no favors. That’s the awkwardness, the second-guessing, the feeling that you’re not measuring up. It’s the fear that you’re not selling the book well enough or, conversely, that it comes off as blatant self-promotion. You don’t want to be unprepared for an interview, but you don’t want to be too rehearsed either. You need to sound smart, funny, insightful, and knowledgeable, but also conversational and relatable. You should always look your best, even at eight o’clock in the morning when there’s no video, as they will probably take a screenshot of you and post it on social media. And for God’s sake, don’t complain about having to do publicity—you’re getting published and you should be grateful!

These impossible double standards remind me of the monologue that America Ferrera’s character delivers in the Barbie movie, about how exhausting it is to be a woman. How you must be thin but not too thin, have money but not ask for money, be a boss but not be mean, love being a mother but stop talking about your kids…and always be grateful. (At least authors, unlike plastic dolls, are allowed to have irrepressible thoughts of death. Just not on their book tours.)

So where does this leave me? How can I promote my book without feeling like an imposter? I suspect the key lies in calibrating my expectations: a ten-minute Q&A isn’t going to show a complete picture of who I am, nor does it have to. One of the reasons I wrote a book is that I couldn’t tell my whole story in a quick conversation. I needed 296 pages and the quiet, focused connection forged between a writer and a reader.

I have an interview scheduled for tomorrow, and if I dig beneath the nervousness, there is awe and, indeed, gratitude. My book is coming out, and hopefully people who read it will find that connection. I will don my headphones gamely, and apply my lipstick. I will do my best to be present, listening carefully to the questions and answering from the heart. I will try not to ramble. And I will remember that one day, after the book has launched and the dust has settled, I can be quiet again. That’s when I’ll go into a room by myself and write the next one.

Patty Lin is an author and former TV writer/producer whose credits include Freaks and Geeks, Friends, Desperate Housewives, and Breaking Bad. She has also written pilots for Fox, CBS, and Nickelodeon. Her Breaking Bad episode, “Gray Matter,” was nominated for a Writers Guild Award for Outstanding Script of 2008 in the Episodic Drama category. She retired from television to save her sanity and began writing a book as an answer to the question, “Why would you quit such a cool job?” Her memoir, End Credits: How I Broke Up with Hollywood, is out now. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband.