Yesterday, I received an email that a five-memoirist panel proposal titled Memoir Dysphoria, which I had been invited to join, was accepted by the AWP Conference in Chicago next March.
Gasp. That means I have to fly to Chicago!
My initial excitement quickly gave way to fret and panic. I had said yes willy-nilly, without even knowing what AWP stood for. I later learned that it is the Association of Writers and Writing Programs. That alone shows how far removed I have become from the writers’ world.
A couple of months ago, during an essay advice consultation with my memoir teacher, she mentioned that she had been invited to join this panel but had declined. She then asked whether I might be interested in taking her place. The topic sounded compelling, so I said yes without fully realizing what it would entail:
“The person who completes and publishes a memoir is not the same person who begins it. The act of writing a memoir alters the persona's relationship to the subject matter and their identity, leading to a disconnection between the author promoting and relating to the book and the persona in the book. Five memoirists draw from personal experience to share how to prepare for and powerfully navigate this dynamic in ways that support generating new work and strengthening your authorial identity.”
I have been grappling with this dysphoria for the past several months. A few months after publication, I was buoyed by a successful launch and by the publicity and marketing campaigns that unfolded remarkably well, despite being a debut memoirist with no preexisting platform.
But after the dust settled came a brutally quiet period, when I had no way of knowing or controlling how my book was performing. I began comparing myself to other authors who were winning awards, landing major publicity, appearing on bestseller lists, and more. Again and again, I had to remind myself why I wrote my book in the first place—reasons that had nothing to do with the metrics and visibility the publishing industry prizes.
I simply wanted to share my lived experience, raise awareness of the long tail of childhood and intergenerational trauma, and deepen understanding of its enduring effects. The impulse toward comparison and competition is still there, of course. But it proved too toxic for my nervous system, so I have decided to shift gears from author to advocate because that role feels more closely aligned with my higher self’s purpose.
My book has been out for about ten months, and my relationship to it has changed. The initial post-publication euphoria, which brought a sense of relief and completion, has now given way to grief and uncertainty. I was taken aback by how challenging this period has been, which inspired me to write a few essays about what has come to be called “post-publication blues.”
Not many authors openly discuss this phenomenon. That makes me wonder whether it may be particularly difficult for someone like me, living with complex trauma. One thing I can say for sure is that, although healing from complex trauma may require a lifelong healing journey, I am still reaping the benefits of having written this memoir. It has shown me more clearly how to recognize my old coping patterns and replace inner-critic attacks with practices of self-kindness and compassion.
I may still feel anxious about flying to Chicago and dipping back into the writers’ world, but I feel I have something real to contribute to the conversation. Perhaps that is why theMemoir Dysphoriapanel feels especially timely, even though I cannot predict how I will feel seven months from now. I hope that sharing these difficult, less visible parts of the aftermath of publication might help other memoirists, especially those who are one and done, feel less alone.