Nice and Dull

The accepted orthodoxy in the literary world is that first novels – particularly first novels by authors under 30 – are thinly veiled autobiographies. Now this is no doubt because a great deal of first novels by authors under 30 are thinly veiled autobiographies. A great deal, but not all. Many, but not mine.

It’s a compliment of sorts that readers find this hard to believe. I guess it means the story feels real, which is cool. But it’s frustrating too, because it’s like they can’t believe a young novelist without a Creative Writing degree or MFA can invent convincingly. Worse, it’s awkward because I couldn’t be more different than my damaged, fearless, self-destructive protagonist, so I always feel I’m letting readers down when I meet them.

The Sydney Morning Herald journo who wrote a profile of me when the book was released admitted I was not at all what she expected. She thought I’d be half-starved and beaten black and blue, chain-smoking and shivering in a sour-smelling grotty flat. I felt I had to apologise for the family portrait sitting on the telly, the fresh flowers on the table and my unbruised, rather fleshy body. I felt I’d tricked her somehow, which is weird because I never claimed to have written a memoir, never claimed to be different than I am. ‘Confessions of a Nice Girl’ the article was headed, and I admit that when I read it, I too, wished I was more like Sarah Clark and less like me.

I love writing because it makes me disappear. I don’t feel anxious or afraid. I don’t feel like I’m three-steps behind the rest of the world, tripping over myself trying to keep up. I wouldn’t say it’s relaxing – sometimes I become quite distressed – but it’s the only time my brain stops its constant neurotic chattering. It’s bloody fantastic.

But eventually I have to stop writing and start talking and I’m just a mess. Don’t get me wrong, I actually love talking about the book and I truly, deeply, madly appreciate each and every person who has taken the time to read it. It’s just I hate to disappoint. I hate that people who love my book want to meet Sarah and end up with Emily.

I know I sound like just another neurotic, self-obsessed author projecting her inferiority complex onto others, and maybe a month ago I might have convinced myself this really was all in my mind. But then The Australian published a review which commented on how my ‘pretty’ author photo did not match the brutal words within and which criticised my bio for being too boring. So my incongruous dullness is now a matter of public record.

Those of you who write fiction about people way cooler/sexier/more glamorous/smarter/funnier than you: how do you front up for interviews and readings knowing that you can’t possibly live up to readers’ expectations? As a reader do you care about the personality of the author? If you met your favourite writer and she was pleasant but inarticulate would it destroy your enjoyment of her books forever? And if you read a review that talked about the dullness of the author’s bio, would you assume the book was dull as well?