The Meaning of a Book Launch

Some thoughts as publishing day approaches

Colossus is out tomorrow. Order it now! The critics are taking notice. Kazuo Robinson and Adam Fleming Petty both published recent reviews that were admiring—read them both—and I was thrilled to appear on the Beyond the Zero podcast to talk about my writing process.

Come down May 11th, where I’ll be in conversation with the legendary Shadi Hamid in Manhattan. Tickets are still available, but they’re selling out.

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Not long ago, I shared stories from my background in publishing—my battles to get books into print, my occasional successes and many failures—and I thought I’d meditate, a little more, on what it means for me when a book is about to be released. The conventional wisdom, for as long as I’d known it, was that the launch was absolutely crucial for any book. Whether it’s nonfiction or a novel, the first few weeks are pivotal. If a book’s not selling then, it’s lights out. And if it is selling, if it’s got early momentum, that’s everything. You’re on your way.

With the official release of Colossus tomorrow, almost an exact year after the appearance of Glass Century, I know enough to say this isn’t really true. Not anymore, anyway. I’m not doubting conglomerate publishers still care about strong starts and writers can get judged this way—I’ll have a book out with a major publisher later this year, and I’m sure they’ll be watching my early sales figures—but a few strong or weak weeks aren’t going to define the legacy of a book, a novel especially. Looking back on a year of Glass Century, I do think it started strong enough; I was happy to see review coverage right away, and a certain perception of the novel take hold that met my high expectations. A novel, though, can have a life that last longs beyond its emergence. It can also get forgotten quickly. Since the internet, to some degree, flattens time, rediscovery is more possible today than it once was, even as the reader wades through so much digital dross. Online word-of-mouth can keep a novel aloft. I can say I still know people reading Glass Century, and I’ve been told it’s been spotted in the wild many months after publication, in a random bookstore or on the subway. That means a lot for a writer.

I no longer get nervous about book launches. If you’ve done enough of them, I suppose, the butterflies go away. There’s also the reality that initial reception can’t make or break a book any longer. The critic can’t make you a star or kill you in the cradle. There’s no defining moment that will decide, on its own, your book’s fate. The slow death of literary prestige is a saving grace here; the stakes are lower, and that means, really, you can focus on what counts. Is your book actually good? Are you proud of it? The labor of art, this glorious struggle, is what matters. I welcome all laurels that come my way. Prize committees should feel eager to throw awards at me, and even better if money is involved. I am being brutally honest, though, when I tell you that I don’t especially care if these come or not. I certainly don’t care like I once did, when I was in my twenties and like any young writer I fantasized about a Pulitzer or a National Book Award. A prize appeals to me today because it, in theory, helps to guarantee some sort of posterity—it is, in a good way, legacy-defining. If the novel still does matter and print books, as a whole, continue to sell, the career-making power of a prize appears to be on the wane. Even the literary-minded can’t recall, off the top of their heads, who won the 2025 or 2024 National Book Award or Pulitzer for fiction. There are past prize winners who struggle to get published today. I can’t spend much mental energy on hoping for awards or any sort of acclaim anymore.

I do, of course, care about what others think. Any writer does. If I receive praise, I am happy. I am blessed to be in a position where my novels have warranted criticism and analysis. This was not always true. Colossus is already getting read, and I am glad. What I do like about the early weeks are the public events, getting to meet readers, getting to explain how this novel came to be. And I am fascinated to see what others make of it; how they interpret it, and how their interpretations may differ from my own. A novel’s emergence in the world is akin to a child’s, in that way—as much as a child might belong to a parent, the child also belongs to the world. The child makes friends. The child goes to school. The child forms an identity beyond the walls of the parent’s home. Novelists sometimes forget this. When they do publish, they take offense if readers do not see their book the way they see it. But this is the nature of the writing life. An author cannot control how another consciousness receives their work. If an author might be the “god” of the novel—the visionary, the creator—the author is also, like a deist god, in recession. The universe is set in motion and the god steps back. A reader will see what a reader sees. In private, the novel belongs to the writer. In public—in publication—it cannot, and never will again. We are still interpreting and arguing about novels long after the original author is dead. That is literature’s power. Embrace it.

Tomorrow, I’ll have a little party for Colossus. There are some spots left, if you’d like to attend and you are in Manhattan. Then, on May 11th, the bookstore launch event and discussion, where I’ll talk and take questions. Some writers find it difficult to discuss their work, and I understand why. Writing and talking are different skillsets. The writer is comfortable on the page articulating, and can struggle to convert those same thoughts into verbal language. I like both; I’ll write and I’ll talk. Throughout history, there have been very public and very private writers, those comfortable on stage or at a party or on television, the charisma of the novel translating to charisma in meatspace. Others are the opposite—deeply private, disinterested in public engagement. We admire, more, the latter, or at least romanticize the approach. I understand why. There’s a certain gravity to dropping a book in the world and walking away. A writer can bw a prophet descending from the mount, delivering a proclamation, and disappearing anew. Ultimately, that’s not my approach. I don’t want to intrude on my reader, but I don’t want to be an enigma to them. Most writers, truthfully, don’t. And it’s no fun.

Buy Colossus, come out tomorrow, and come on May 11th. I’ll have other events on the docket too, in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Ottawa. If you want me to come to your city, feel free to reach out.