Its a big deal to me that I published a novella on Smashwords. I could be arrogant but its amazing that the world just keeps on turning, like nothing’s happened while I feel like everything’s spinning out of control because of this one thing I did.
I really didn’t think The Taker was ready to be published. I know its far from perfect in presentation and I need to read through it again. I know I have no way of improving further without a professional (and holistic) editor who can do the work for free.
But I published it anyway because all my life I’ve always gotten the impression from others that writing isn’t a legitimate life pursuit 1) unless you have the money to pay for it already or 2) someone recognizes you, you hit it big and you play the politics of the market to get ahead. Or you have to be a J.K. Rowling or a Stephen King, Dan Brown or whoever wrote Fifty Shades of [I can’t even completely mention the title here because I don’t like fads, especially ones that are rumored to promote misconceptions about sexuality and even violence–not that I completely believe rumors of books that I haven’t read myself]. I don’t have money. I don’t have connections or connections that have connections. I don’t have an editor, a cover artist, a publisher, or a literary agent. I don’t have a support network of people who care about my dreams or passions who will help bounce back when I feel like an utter failure or like my stories don’t matter. I don’t have a job. I grew up poor.
Its just me, alone, trying to figure out what to do.
I’m always thinking that the reason no one cares about my work is because I’m weird, I think about writing the wrong way, I don’t do what’s popular and trendy, and I don’t try hard enough and put myself out there enough to get any real exposure. I’m just not “doing” writing “the right way”.
I am afraid of getting hurt, I’ve been hurt enough in my life. So I hesitate to offer myself (that means my writing as well) to anyone or anything. And that would be okay if I hadn’t always dreamed of being published in a way that is closer to the traditional idea. What if I get it? A dream come true, a little shine, a little attention, a published book that a few people read. I don’t know what I’d do then. Probably keep writing. Maybe I’d stay thirsty and hungry and keep trying to get more, maybe I’d keep trying to climb higher.
I published The Taker anyway (even though it could have repercussions if anyone actually finds it, buys it, and reads it) because I wanted to challenge myself. So far like twelve people have looked at it. No purchases. No downloads. No sample read. I didn’t expect instant fame. I hoped. I fantasized. I expect people to ignore it, leave it under its rock, to tell me its garbage. I’ll be hurt, I’ll fight to get over it. I published the novella anyway because for some reason I feel like if I can get people to read my work, maybe I’ll find love at last. I am prepared to accept rejection and obscurity as long as I try to help my dream come true instead of getting stuck on all the reasons that its unlikely.
I’m not looking for anyone to coach me or tell me the error of my thinking. I’m just putting this out as a sincere collection of my feelings right now.