Are Sensitive People Doomed To Anxiety?

I had sent a copy of my first solo novel “Streetlethal” to one of my idols, Harlan Ellison, hoping for a cover blurb. He called me after reading a page or so, congratulating me on the publication, and enjoying the fact that the first few lines were evocative and similar to something he had written himself. He’d get back to me.

This was a hard time for me. I’d broken up with my girlfriend Toni (who would later become my first wife) and was living alone. I’d put all my hopes into that book. Aubry Knight, the lead character, was very much like me, only turned inside out: Aubry had infinite confidence in his physicality but little in his emotions or intellect. I had confidence in my intellect, but little in my emotions or physicality. When you put yourself into your work, you do your best work…but also your riskiest.

So I puttered through my days, waiting for him to call me back. And waited. I remember the night I finally got that call. It was raining and cold, and I was alone in the house on Hayvenhurst street in the San Fernando Valley. The phone rang.

Harlan sounded pained. He had to say something he clearly hated saying. “It isn’t ready, Steve” he said. “Can you hold back publication..?”

No. I couldn’t. As kindly as he could, he explained the things he found poor in the book. I had no defenses. Every word he said hit like a bomb, and the obvious regret he felt in having to say these things just made it worse. I thanked him for the call, and his time.