AKA: what happens pre-launch.

Twice in the life of a single book, there are times when the brain goes completely feral: the instant you finish a novel … I call it *writers’ trench coat syndrome* when your brain doesn’t know what to do with itself and you are pretty sure nothing makes sense. It’s not fun. It’s also not permanent. Your brain casts around looking for something new to chew on but you know, it just needs 48 maybe 72 hours to let the last body of work you’ve just finished, sink in. It feels unhinged but you get through it relatively unscathed.

The second time everything goes sideways is right before a launch. That’s a whole different thing. This is what I call an *Authorial Doom Spiral*. It’s a different beast but still quite familiar to me. It’s a jittery, paranoid feeling that has you believing NO ONE is coming to your launch. No one. A horrible realisation that you’ve written shit and everyone will know … and why would anyone show up to that? Even the usual spooks are clearly going to give that a miss. Why would they bother turning out to hear you talk bollocks?

Even after twenty-five novels, I still get it. Right before a launch, I have the undeniable, irrational certainty that nobody will show up. Not my family. Not my friends. Not my best friend who flies 500 km (I have no idea how far it is from CHCH to WGTN). Not even my loyal readers who usually cheer me on. It goes quite dark when you’re in the throes of an *Authorial Doom Spiral*.

My brain flips to those who physically cannot come, some because they are pushing up daisies (or whatever you do when you’re now ashes) and some because they’re thousands of kms away. As sensible as it is to know the reason and understand how life works … that doesn’t fucking matter when I’m a week away from the launch and the *Authorial Doom Spiral* is ramping up like a Cat 4 storm.

Preparing for a launch is like running a covert operation. There are balls in the air. Things I have to keep an eye on. Stuff that needs doing. I find myself checking the event page like people have sent encrypted messages, not a going or interested tick mark. Then it’s full on into cake mode like I’m baking a bomb, and make sure the cat’s haven’t chewed through anything to get to the merch (Dallas chewed the ribbon off an apron). My brain, cloaked in that metaphorical Doom Spiral, whispers every worst-case scenario in a voice that could give a Bond villain chills. 

And then, after a week of absolute craziness, there’s a terrifying end insight. It’s make or break. There’s no getting away from it. Regardless of what happens next. I will be there. Ready.

Then the final mission begins. The room fills. Friends, family, readers, and sometimes a surprise agent or two appear. And just like that, the panic fades. You realise the fear was mostly imaginary (it’s not imaginary at all), but the joy is very real. Every launch is a messy, stressful, ridiculously human reminder of why we write … and why people come to witness the carnage end product and celebrate the feat it is to actually write and publish a novel. (Or they’re there to eat the cake and couldn’t give a rat’s arse about the year slog it is to create something from nothing.)

So yes, I’m quite sure my brain will go feral again next time. I’ll sweat the going/interested event stuff, panic over the merch I created, and obsess over the cake, and interrogate the cats. *But I know the endgame: surrounded by people who care, stories that matter, and the quiet thrill of having just shared a piece of myself with the world. And somewhere, in the shadows, my trench coat is already dusting itself off in preparation of me finishing the next Ronnie Tracey Spy/PI novel. Or it’s getting pointers from the *Authorial Doom Spiral* on how to best fuck me up before I even get to the next launch. 🙂 

*Do I know the end game though?
I can sound like I do but trust me when I say I am not convinced. 

[Foxtrot Foxtrot Sierra]