Mortification

John Green has a chapter in The Anthropocene Reviewed titled “Mortification.” As the name suggests, it is entirely centered around embarrassing moments that keep the author up at night.

He writes:

“I had a book signing… [T]wo people—one of whom was my boss but kindly pretended to be a stranger—were in attendance. I decided to go ahead with my presentation anyway, and I read a passage from early in the book when the narrator has a disappointing going-away party. The passage in question ends with the following sentence:

‘The only thing worse than having a party no one attends is having a party only attended by two vastly, deeply uninteresting people.’

And then I looked up and realized I had managed to offend the only two people who came to my book launch.”

I think about this story a lot—not just because it’s funny, but because it’s painfully relatable. I, too, have horrifying moments just like that one that play on a near-constant loop in my head.

In fact, I embarrassed myself horribly just this week.

This is not an unusual occurrence, exactly—I’m very easily embarrassed. Still, just about every time I feel this way, it haunts me.

When I was in the Army, my platoon sergeant made me do Batman, Buzz Lightyear, and Mickey Mouse impressions in front of the entire company. I was so mortified I spoke to no one, including my roommate, for nearly three days.

Then there’s the time I got lost in the hospital searching for the COVID vaccination room. A nurse directed me, I got my shot and headed back out the way I came. The nurse who’d helped me find my way said, “I’m glad you found the door okay.” That’s the precise moment when my face slammed into the slow-opening automatic door. I went to the car and cried the whole way home.

And this week, at a mixer where I was trying to find a writing group, an author told me her book was queer, and I unthinkingly said, “I know you are, but what am I?”

Mind you, this was just before I accidentally spilled half a bottle of water on someone, too. It was not my best day.

I guess the reason I’m sharing this is because I know better than most how embarrassing it is to just be alive, let alone to share something as vulnerable as your writing. I know it’s terrifying and might make you want to die.

But you should do it anyway.

As mortifying as it is to put yourself out there—to risk criticism and rejection—there’s something even more embarrassing: having a book no one ever reads because you were too scared to show it to anyone.

You’ve been embarrassed before, and you’ve survived every single time. So be brave. Share your work. You never know who needs to read it.