The phrase “stranger in a strange land” is something I thought about a lot this past February.

The phrase actually goes back about three-thousand years. I’m not kidding. It’s from a short passage in the Book of Exodus. It’s a reference to a son born to Moses and his wife (they named the baby Gershom, which means “stranger”). A few millennia later, science fiction writer Robert Heinlein borrowed the phrase for the title of his 1961 novel about a human who comes to earth after spending the first 25 years of his life on Mars. Stranger in a Strange Land was the first science fiction novel to make The New York Times best seller list for fiction, and it’s probably Heinlein’s best known book.

But neither of these fine literary works – the Book of Exodus or the book of Heinlein – had anything to do with the mental space I was occupying at the beginning of this year. I wasn’t writing any best sellers, and I sure as hell wasn’t parting the Red Sea. There was nothing bold or groundbreaking going on in my little corner of the world. I was just struggling to finish my second novel (which was already a few months behind schedule).

Let me back up a minute for the sake of context. For the last six years, a group of volunteer organizers in Northeast Ohio has been putting together a convention in March called Cleveland ConCoction. It’s a three-day gathering of folks immersed in science fiction, fantasy, horror, gaming, art, cosplay and probably some other stuff I’m missing. It’s becoming a fairly popular event, with attendees hailing from all around the Great Lakes, the Midwest and beyond. A few hardcore attendees even come in from either coast.

I’d been vaguely aware of ConCoction for a couple years, but it never seemed like the right fit for me. Science fiction? Yeah, I’ve read a fair amount of it (including Heinlein), but fantasy and horror not so much. Gaming and cosplay, not at all. My comfort zone – as both a writer and a reader – has always been more in the neighborhood of pulp fiction, gangsters and G-men, cops and detectives, vintage comics, B-movies from the 1950s about the perils of the atomic age – basically all that good stuff that emerged during the four-decade stretch that included the Great Depression, World War II, the Cold War and the U.S./Soviet race to the moon. I’ve had a decades-long fascination with masked avengers, evil Nazi scientists, wartime espionage, doomsday machines and the like.

I’ve had a decades-long fascination with masked avengers, evil Nazi scientists, wartime espionage, doomsday machines and the like.

But as an independent author, I’m constantly on the lookout for opportunities to promote and sell my books. So when I discovered that Cleveland ConCoction hosted something called Authors Alley, I was intrigued. In simple terms, Authors Alley is a room within the convention venue dedicated to displaying, promoting and selling books by attending authors. It’s also the location for book signings and the place where writers and readers can connect, network, schmooze, etc. Think of it as ConCoction’s literary ground zero.

So in the last months of 2018, I contacted the organizers, submitted all the necessary information --- book synopses, cover images, author bio, author portrait – and told them I’d be interested in participating. After a few weeks, I was given the green light. I was in. I’d be a part of Authors Alley at Cleveland ConCoction 2019 on March 1 through 3. Even better, I was scheduled to appear on a couple author panels, do a reading and sit for a book signing.

Cool, right?

Well…

Something started happening a few weeks before the event. Call it social anxiety. Call it pre-show jitters. Call it whatever. As the weekend drew closer, I grew increasingly ambivalent. It was the usual stuff: I wouldn’t know anybody, I’d be out of my element, these weren’t my people, they wouldn’t get me, I wouldn’t get them, I wouldn’t have anything to offer, I’d burn a weekend that would be better spent on the aforementioned novel. (Have I mentioned that it was already behind schedule?)

In short, I’d be a stranger in a strange land.

By the last days of February, I was dreading the whole damn thing. I was even contemplating a scenario of gracefully backing out of the entire event.

In hindsight, the anxiety was wasted energy. Anxiety usually is.

I won’t spend a lot of time on minute details about how everything unfolded when I arrived on Friday morning, but suffice it to say I was surprised. I was pleasantly surprised. An hour after I checked in, I spoke on a four-person panel about crafting the fictional villain everyone loves to hate (or hates to love). My fellow panelists were friendly and gracious. They gave me room to speak, and used some of my ideas as jumping-off points to take the discussion in interesting directions. The audience of 20 or so attendees at the panel was very engaged. They asked several questions during the Q&A. One even told me after the fact that some things I said inspired her to buy my book.

The following day, I sat on another panel. This one was a discussion of the high points (and low points) of self-publishing. Again, the turnout was healthy and the discussion was lively. About two-thirds of the way through the presentation, I put all my anxieties out there and talked about the importance of being an author who “shows up,” mentally and emotionally as well as physically. I told the audience that I’d had misgivings about coming, and why. I told them I pushed past all that and jumped in. I told them how glad I was that I’d done so, because I was meeting some great people all weekend. One young woman (another writer) sitting about five rows back listened to me say all this and actually started clapping.

Apparently, I had some things to offer that actually resonated with people. You tend to forget that when you’re sitting alone in your office, in front of your laptop for weeks and months at a time, wondering if your ideas or your words or your work are any good at all.

Despite my earlier plan to just get in and get out – or perhaps not even go at all – I ended up staying for every scheduled hour of the convention between Friday morning and Sunday afternoon. I would have stuck around for some after-hours events as well, but I didn’t book a room at the venue, and 30 minutes is a long drive home at one or two in the morning.

Next year.

I was one of 40 authors at the 2019 ConCoction. Of the 39 others, I think I made about 30 new friends. I would have connected with more, but I simply ran out of time. As it was, my social media pages were overheating in the days afterward with new contacts and new friends – some of them just a few miles from where I live, others on the other side of the continent, all of them newfound treasures.

In the end, I was glad I went. In the end, I couldn’t believe I’d almost bailed.

If you’re serious about self-improvement – not just as a writer but as a human being – you have to step outside at some point. You have to push the comfort zone a little bit.

Even after thirty-plus years as a professional writer – the last ten of which I’ve spent focusing more intently on fiction – I’m reminded again and again of the exploratory nature of the writing process. That exploration can be a pretty solitary experience that forces you to go way inside and dig deep. But here’s the thing: while the inner world can be a fascinating place, it’s not the only place. If you’re serious about self-improvement – not just as a writer but as a human being – you have to step outside at some point. You have to push the comfort zone a little bit. You have to do things you haven’t done, see things you haven’t seen, meet people you haven’t met.

You have to be a stranger in strange land.

The payoff may not be earth-shaking. You may not make The New York Times best seller list, and I guarantee you won’t part the Red Sea. But if you can take the leap and be open to the risks, the rewards can be great. And chances are good you won’t be a stranger for very long.    

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