Anyone who stumbles upon this blog would come away thinking, "Wow, she really complains a lot!" I do complain sometimes, but most of my posts are my way of working issues out in my mind. You see, no one even knows that I'm an author ~ I mean no one. Not even the person I live with. Why? When I started down this road sometime around 2015 I didn't know if I could do it. (I couldn't, by the way; not then.) I made the mistake of telling my significant other that I was writing a book, and he'd ask about it occasionally ~ "How's the book coming?" ~ and I'd give some noncommittal response. Soon he stopped asking at all, but I continued working away. When I did finish my first novel, I vowed I wouldn't tell him until it was accepted by an agent. Then we'd celebrate! I even considered buying a pack of Blue Moon beer for the occasion (the book's title was "Once In a Blue Moon"). Well, that never happened. I was rejected at every turn, probably rightfully so.
Eventually I started on a second novel, and I was excited about it. I had a much better story this time. About a hundred agents rejected it, although one small publisher's rep did ask for the full. She subsequently told me that the book was (essentially) awful. It probably was; I don't know. If I were to read it today, I'd no doubt agree. While her response made me feel like a complete loser, I became determined to ultimately succeed. After a period of self-pity, I embarked on my third novel. This one was good! I'd learned so much about what to do and what not to do from my initial failures that I was feeling confident. I gleefully chose a few high-value agents to query and when they sent rejections, I chose a few more. Next, I went for ten, then twelve or so, until finally I sent queries to every single agent who was breathing. I never received one request for a partial, never mind the full manuscript.
It took about six months before I even opened a blank Word doc and began spilling words onto the screen. I knew this new project would never be queried, which seemed to free me up to simply write what I wanted, with no expectations other than my own. I didn't know I was writing a novella; I was just writing. No subplot ~ the entire story focused on the main character. And at some point I realized the story was done. Waaay too short for a novel, it came out at around 21,000 words. And I liked it just the way it was. I had to actually Google what category it fell into and found that yes, it was a novella. Regardless of its brevity, I discovered a new-found love of writing. This was my calling. I couldn't pull off writing a successful novel, but this I could do.
By now the topic of writing never came up in my household. My spouse probably figured it was another of my pipe dreams I'd abandoned and he didn't want to bring up a sore subject. Why didn't I tell him? I clung to the notion that I first had to be successful; otherwise he'd simply utter something like, "Nice try."
I went on to write five more, and pretty quickly. It was fun! But none of them sold (three of them have still never sold a single copy). At one point, long after it was published, I accidentally found an Amazon review for that first novella and I was floored. Somebody read it?!? That still didn't exactly qualify as "success", though.
By then it had simply become the norm not to talk about my writing. I'd hate to have to answer questions like, "What's it about?" I'm not sure I would even be capable of verbalizing that. "Well, see, this girl moves to a small town and she meets some people and then something bad happens and eventually everything gets resolved." Oh. "Exciting".
All of which is my long-winded way of saying, yes, I do complain here a lot. Because I have nobody to complain to. And show me an indie author who doesn't complain about lack of sales and lack of audience interaction. It's like a painter displaying her wares at a local art show and all the patrons walk right past her to look at somebody else's work. It hurts. It's a blatant rejection. She knows she's a good painter, but no one even bothers to cast a single glance. It would almost feel better to be criticized than to be ignored.
Then perhaps she figures if she publicizes her work somehow, someone will take notice. She even pays for the opportunity. At last one or two people agree to take one of her paintings home, but only if she gives it to them for free. And they never tell their friends that they like the painting, much less mention the artist's name. So she tells herself the problem is that she doesn't have enough paintings ~ she needs to do more; build up her portfolio. Surely then folks will see her work everywhere ~ they can't not see it. Granted, some paintings turn out better than others, but taste is subjective. Somebody might like that one that she's not overly fond of.
Suddenly she's got a wide selection of work and still only a scant notice here and there. She manages to actually sell a couple, but months apart and her bank account is dwindling. A company approaches her and tells her that if she pays them, they'll send a bunch of art lovers her way. She takes the last of her savings and plunks it down to buy a "special" ad. And it works! Folks sign up to be on her mailing list. She's pumped. She figures out how to send a newsletter to all these people to tell them about her work ~ what's new, how much those two people really like it. She even decides to throw in a free painting, hoping these new "fans" will spread the word and she'll acquire even more potential customers. But nobody bites.
At last she understands there's nothing more she can do. Oh, she'll keep painting because she loves to paint. She tells herself that doing what she loves is the most important thing. A bunch of artists around town are selling like gangbusters, but she decides to ignore all that. Still, in the back of her mind, she thinks, "someday".
Meanwhile, she complains about her failures in her diary, because a diary doesn't offer any judgement.
This is why I complain here.
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