Anonymous

I like being that "unknown author". I like my anonymity. That's a horrible way for someone who wants to sell books to think, but it gives me peace and serenity. I believe that most authors are introverts. One can't be extroverted and a writer at the same time. There are too many hands to shake, too much chatter to spew. That leaves no time for hunkering down and spilling words onto a page. Extroverts crave interaction too much, whereas I am quite content with only myself for company.

Ever since I was little I made up stories in my head. I lived far out in the country, so the only time I interacted with anyone outside my family was when I went to school. Even there I wasn't the belle of the ball. Sure, I had "friends" ~ acquaintances, really ~ but to me, one only needed one true friend, a "best" friend, and I always had one of those. Having a best friend kept me from becoming a weird hermit. Most of the time, though, I was left to my own devices. The stories I made up were my companions. I got lost in them as I strolled along gravel roads; always revising the stories until they pleased me. They weren't exactly an escape. They were simply the natural flow of life. I didn't know that not everyone did that. 

While I had a few natural talents, my mother drilled into me that one does not brag, so I dutifully slid under the radar, surprised when anyone offered validation; discomfited by their words of praise. And naturally I retreated into my inner life. I found that pleasing myself was my comfort. I could let my light shine, but not be a supercilious jerk about it. Of course, my talents were a secret to everyone but me, but I was okay with that.

Thus, it became a habit. Every once in a while I'd wish that someone would notice, but I grew used to my anonymity. Too, I feared that if anyone did notice, I'd be exposed as a fraud. It was entirely possible that I was the only person who believed I was good at something. 

All of this is why I hate promoting my books. I write to please myself and it would be nice if someone else was pleased, too, but what if they weren't? Rejection is like a dagger to the heart.

I was happier being anonymous, happier when no one was buying my books. Freer. I didn't need to live up to anyone's expectations but my own. Now, a few people have laid down money for them, and the absence of reviews only tells me that they weren't worth reviewing. Yes, I got one fantastic review, but she seems like a nice person who went out of her way to be generous. Do I think she actually fell in love with my book? Of course not. 

I thought about this concept as I was doing my "final" read-through of my novel-turned-novella. Most of it was fine until I hit a part that was all wrong. It was out of context ~ the scene landed on the completely wrong day. The main character had resigned from her job, and the next thing we knew, she was driving to work. I'm not that clueless if I'm writing a story from start to finish, but since I've condensed a 60,000 word novel, I deleted several chapters and apparently cut out something important. 

I was so tired of the thing, I considered just leaving it as is. But know who that would disappoint? Me. I don't anticipate anyone reading it once it's published, but I would still know how badly I'd messed up. Why would I do that to myself? If it wasn't for me being a fan of me, I would have no fans at all.

I will fix it and I will publish. I will admire the cover image I place on my website that no one has ever visited. I will have pleased myself.

Pleasing myself is the only reason I'm keeping up this gig.

 

~ Anonymous