A Fresh Outlook

I'm not an obsessive person. I know obsessives, because I live with one. That's not me. I can let go of things pretty easily. But for some reason I became obsessed with, of all things, reviews. That may be a product of reading and researching too much. I might have been researching author newsletters, for example, and ran across a blurb about the importance ~ nay, the imperative ~ of acquiring reviews. That advice jumped out at me so much, no matter what aspect of writing I was looking for, that I started viewing myself as a failure for not having any. 

If you read any of my previous posts, you'll see what I became. They're invariably about finding reviews, how to get them, my frustrations with not getting them. But today I awoke with a revelation: Who cares?

It's true that while I was writing my first novel way back when, images of dollar bills flooded my brain. I was so certain I would land a publishing contract and I would not only become rich, but famous, too. Oh, come on ~ it's not as if I'm the only writer who ever thought that. Pretty much all of us do at first. But zero agents expressed any interest in what I was selling. The rejections swamped my in-box. Did I give up? Oh no. I kept finding more agents to submit to, until I had exhausted every plausible name I could find. At that point I shelved the manuscript, vowing to never write again. That's what "certainty" gets you. Disillusionment. It wasn't me; it was them. They couldn't see my phenomenal story-telling skills.

Eventually, I grew determined to show them. I wrote a second novel, and by God, it was even better! Let's see 'em turn this one down! Well, they did. All one hundred-plus of them. Did that teach me a lesson? Of course not. I wrote a third. But it turned out I had more luck with the second, which at least garnered me one lonely request. 

And that's when I quit. Writing, that is. Yep, I quit.

That lasted almost a year. But one day I sat down at my computer and, bored, started a story that began with one casual sentence, a memory from a time long ago when I'd chanced upon a sign that read, "Buffalo cemetery" and had laughed at the incongruity of it. I built the story around that one opening line. And I loved writing it. It came up way short, word-count-wise, but I liked it. I was satisfied with it. I'd never had that feeling previously.

I was energized enough to keep going. I wrote another, then another of what I learned were "novellas". They were fun! Fun little compact stories.

It might have been a year or so after publishing my first one that I somehow ran across an Amazon review of it. I was floored! I'd never even checked for reviews before, because why would I? My three novels had (and still have) never sold one solitary copy.

But even after finding that lone review, I didn't become obsessed with collecting more. How would I even do that? This one was a fluke, after all. I was so happy to have one, I didn't care that it was only one.

It wasn't until a few months ago, in fact, that I gave reviews a second thought. That's what I get for researching, I guess.

But do I really care anymore that I'm not rich and famous? No. Sure, I wouldn't mind being rich ~ who would? Let's just say that neither of those are my life's goals. And thus, if I don't get reviews, ehh. Two or three people have enjoyed my work. That's something. 

My obsession has passed. I'm not ready to write again, because I always take a break between projects in order to let the last one sink in for a while. But I will write again. I'll slap it up on Amazon, like I did with all ten or eleven or however many I've published. And that's it. I might maintain my newsletter for a time, just because I like doing things like that. It's creative, like designing book covers is creative. I expect no return from either of those pursuits. 

I am simply happy to have regained peace of mind.

And no more "author success" research. It's a paved road to hell.