The writer's neuroses

I am a writer and I am neurotic. I'm not saying you have to be neurotic to be a writer. I'm just saying I am. And as my new book, The Humans, is less than a month away from being published, my mind is currently a swirling, Hitchcockian whirlpool of paranoia and anxiety.

So what do I get neurotic about? Well, everything. Unwashed carrots, people born after 1975 (there are tons), itchy moles, North Korea, people in front of me in the queue at Tesco Metro. But as this is a blog about books, I will stick to the neuroses that I have in relation to the book world. (The first draft of this blog was 17,000 words long. These are the edited highlights.)

Okay. These are the Things That Make Me Anxious:

- Reviews. The thing is, of course, people say you shouldn't take reviews personally. I don't know how this works. Writing a book is the most personal act imaginable. Writing a book is taking a lift to the basement of your self and carrying back up as much emotional truth as you can hold. It is mental striptease, and you walk out in front of the world naked. So if a reviewer points at you and says, actually, your naked self isn't good enough it is personal. And the only sane response is to hide under the duvet for three and a half months clutching Archibald, my childhood teddybear.

- Prizes. Prizes are a bit different to reviews. While a bad review feels like the school bully going out of his way to pick on me, prizes make me feel like I am being ignored by the teachers. Unless of course I get shortlisted, which is even worse. Unless I win. In which case it will be the last year ever the prize will function.

- Amazon rankings. Because I am an idiot who doesn't learn.

- Events. First of all you worry that you are not invited to any events. And then you get asked to an event. And then there are two equally terrifying possibilities: either there will be a lot of people there, or there won't be a lot of people there. I once did an event at a bookshop in California for eight people. It was the most terrifying event of my life. (And the only question I got asked at the end was 'What type of accent is that?' 'British,' I responded. They looked doubtful. 'No. No. It wasn't.')

- Emails. Whether unreceived or unanswered.

- Store displays. And my book's place (or not) within them.

- The existence of books that aren't mine. And - even worse - people reading those books that aren't mine.

- Polo necks. I don't own one, but I know I should, because Jeffrey Eugenides wears them.

- Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, Klout. The whole internet, basically.

- Royalty statements.

- My launch party. Will anyone turn up? You will, won't you? You will? You will?

- Literary parties. In case you have never been to a literary party let me explain. It involves a large room of writers and publishers all smiling and laughing awkwardly at each other while cradling glasses of warm white wine. As you walk, alone, into this room, everyone simultaneously ignores you and you are forced to float around like a lonely particle and smile at people as they look in squinted bafflement at your name badge.

- First drafts. I have just finished the first draft of a book for teenagers. Every email and phonecall that happens and is not from my publishers causes me to age two months.

- Granta. On Monday Granta is going to name what it deems to be the 20 best British writers under 40. I am a writer and I am British and I am under 40 and I try to write the best novel that has ever been written each time I write. But what if - as logic and statistical probability insists - I am not on that list? What if I am on the silently implied and larger list. The list of the worst writers in Britain under 40. What then? What if my life work, these novels that I have tried to make as clear and articulate and passion-filled and honest and intelligent and entertaining and genre-resistant and accessible as I can manage, aren't judged to be among the best? Well, as I will find out the news in a hotel room on my own I will probably end up crying on the edge of a bed while shoving salted cashews into my mouth and wishing I'd never ever written a vampire novel.

- The other writer. This changes every year. Each year there is another writer I always obsess about and get worried about. This is always a writer who gets more reviews than me and seems somehow more inside, more establishment, more Hampstead, more Groucho Club, cooler or more Booker-ish or who simply has a classier author photo.

- The idea of not having any of these things to worry about.

I normally try and end with a nice heartwarming bit. This week I've made you a nice and heartwarming video. It would make me marginally less anxious about my YouTube views (my latest neurosis) if you clicked to see some lovely people read from a chapter of my new book The Humans, in an inspiring manner. The chapter is called 'Advice For A Human' and consists of things I sincerely believe about humanity. It is also the chapter I sent to Granta for submission which I am now neurotically thinking was the wrong thing to do, as it is me being sentimental and warm rather than cleverly ironic. The video was a nightmare to edit and caused my wife (who did most of the techie stuff on imovie) to nearly divorce me twice. So if you want to watch something that is simultaneously inspiring and divorce-provoking, here you go: