I am a writer. Have been since I was seven or eight years old. Had big dreams of one day being a world renown, published author. Think Stephen King but with fewer nightmares, a permanent tan, and boobs. Anyway, in case it wasn’t obvious, I’ve let a lot of life get between my dreams and my actions.
Early 2008 I decided I wanted to be a published author. I’d tried going the conventional route – sending out query letters and collecting rejection slips but that quickly got old and I decided to learn how to self-publish a book.
Each of the first four books I wrote and released were all done, from first word to first sale of the physical book, in less than nine months – over the course of four years. And while I believe the writing was tight (as in each has a solid plot, nice character development), the production was lacking. I rushed through key steps ( as I am wont to do in so many areas of my life); I was haphazard in my (gag) marketing efforts; and got way too distracted by how other indie authors I came across were doing their thing.
Side note on the marketing. So the first book I ever produced was a collection of erotic bits and pieces. To promote said writing, I did a couple of live readings at bachelor parties. In lingerie. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I sat in fancy underwear, reading erotica from my book to a group of men while the strippers took breaks between performances. Now I’m not a prude by any stretch, but those experiences put me off writing erotica altogether.
It’s been six years since I last wrote and released a book. Thanks to all the alone time Ms. Rona has provided for me these past five months, I’ve realized the past six years was me allowing my inner children to throw one hell of a pity party. My inner seven-year-old packed up her story telling imagination and went home because the first five books hadn’t netted “us” any type of fortune or fame. She did not want to share her toys with people who hadn’t acknowledged her obvious genius. My inner 15-year-old figured since “nobody liked us”, any type of promotion was just going to get us teased and bullied. We had no chance of becoming part of the “in” crowd so why bother? She convinced my confidence to start skipping school so to speak and next thing you know, I’m avoiding any event that might introduce me to potential book buyers. Even events where I would be fully clothed were out of the question.
After a year of on my creative, uh…hiatus? Yeah, we’ll go with hiatus. About a year or so in, my inner 21-year-old (yes, I have a lot of goobers in my head) analyzed the situation and in her infinite wisdom (written with some sarcasm), she figured that what I really needed was to learn how to run a business, because obviously, THAT’S why I hadn’t sold enough books or made enough to quit my day job and earn a living as a novelist. Here we are, five years and a little over three thousand dollars later, and I’m still not where my 7-, 15- , and 21-year-olds want me to be.
But back to Ms. Rona and my “shelter in place free time” revelation that the kids had been running my creative household this whole time. Obviously, I’ve indulged them for way too long and it’s time to assert myself as the adult. UGH! No, wait. Wrong word. There will be no adulting when it comes to my writing, thank you very much. Adulting is hard, writing for me, is not, so let’s say, as the oldest and wisest of the personalities that share this body, I’m putting my foot down. There are now mandatory, “family” meetings where every of the youngin’s gets to share her thoughts, fears, and ideas. That way, everyone gets to be heard and paid attention to; hopefully they’ll be less inclined to through temper tantrums in the future as a way to get my attention. There’s also a chore list on the fridge (aka, tasks in my planner that correspond with my writing business goals). Everyone has a job to do that contributes to the running of this creative house.
In turn, I’ll be taking better care of them…well, myself is what I really mean, since they’re all just aspects of me. After all, all work and no play…yadda, yadda, yadda. So yeah, the 7-year-old now has regularly scheduled play dates; there are hangouts and movie dates for the 15-year-old, and a budding social(ly distant) life for the 21-year-old (she is quite the party hound and this quarantine has been especially hard on her).
With all of that situated, it’s time to get some writing done. Hit that follow button if you haven’t already and join me and my inner 7-year-old as we work on my next novel.
As always, thanks for stopping by.