SquarePeg Books

I’m not there yet. I’m a slow writer. I’ve learned through observation that the masses do not want to wait 2 years in between books that are all a part of the same series (well, not anymore – 30 years ago, there wasn’t much of a choice, but now…). If you make them wait, you get dropped like a hot rock.

I’ve been slowly clawing my way back onto the paths of Focus and Productivity. Slogging through the accumulated crap that I’ve ignored for time and sanity budgets is more labor and depressing than I like to admit. Trying to find a method to cope with the madness is challenging.

But, on the plus side, my brain is kinda thinking about writing again. If I think too hard, the wheels squeal in protest and there’s an unpleasant smokey smell, but the gears are beginning to remember how to turn.

Thinking is great. I haven’t “thought” in a while. Survived, yes. Thought? Not so much.

Thinking also hurts, though.

What am I doing with my life? Why am I doing this? What, exactly, do I want?

This is one of those nights I question my desire to publish.

The odds are stacked against me. Hundreds of voices are published every day, some with a lot of capital for advertising. Free or drastically discounted stories are the expectation from the readership (everyone knows this is just a hobby for you). Short dates between books (the gods forbid people wait to get something…), the constantly changing climate of what and how and where and is this acceptable anymore or is it too hot a topic these days?, make it a nightmare of a landscape to navigate, even as an indie.

And in total honesty, half of the people who have read my work thus far have told me they loved it and can offer very little in the way of critical feedback.

The other half despise it, or (even worse) demand that I change it to meet their criteria of acceptable writing for publication, while throwing their credentials in my face.

“I worked for literary agency X for 5 years, so I know what I’m talking about. you need to completely change the characters and strip out every single adverb. Using adverbs is weak writing.”

“I’m older than you and come from a different country and I’m telling you that because I’m foreign I know your writing voice sucks and you’ll need to completely change it to conform to International English standards if you want to be taken seriously.”

“I’ve published a short story one time and I hold an officer position in this local writing group that holds a conference every year, so I know from a professional standpoint that you must have a a single theme clearly in your head to control the entire arc of the story, and your refusal to do that shows you lack professionalism.”

Not much in terms of useful feedback there, either.

With such polar opposites regarding my work, I wonder if it’s worthwhile to publish. Publishing costs money – a lot of money upfront if you’re to do it right.  Purchasing ISBN’s, Copyright registration, cover art, copy editing, formatting, PO Box, EIN’s, LLC’s, advertising… It costs a lot to push out a single book correctly. I save a little money every month to cover the anticipated expenses, but I’m so slow at writing I worry that the market will change so radically by the time I get to the starting line, there won’t be a race anymore. There won’t even be a historical trail marker for where the race once was.

If I’m going to publish and have it be a meaningful ROI, shouldn’t my work have more of a broad spectrum appeal? What the hell would be a meaningful ROI, anyway?

In 2012 I decided that I would go indie with my work (when it gets finished – yes, I know, I’m not a fast writer, I’ve covered this before. Ad nauseum.) because I started to see how the game was played with secret handshakes and hidden algorithms and Agencies whose “agents” might have a degree in Literature or General English, but could just as likely be a Physics BS or even a college dropout who had “an eye for the work” as defined by whoever runs said agency.  My work would be judged, sliced, diced and packaged according to one person’s taste and I couldn’t stand the thought of it (and I sucked at writing pitches, but now we’re getting off point).

I’d told myself it’s okay to be indie. I said the important thing is to get the work out there. Even Tolkien got raked over the coals when Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit first came out. I don’t have to be rich from my work. I just want people to read it and acknowledge that it’s mine and maybe garner a few fans.

But if I’m truly honest with myself, I know that getting noticed, selling books, gathering a fan base, selling books, writing more books, staying in the black on the ledger, marketing, writing more books…

Well, the stars will probably need to be aligned just so as a unicorn drops a sparkling rainbow turd on Europa’s night side while Mercury is in transit on a Thursday for a living wage to become a possibility.

It’s a wee bit disheartening.

I mean, it’s good to acknowledge the realism of the situation. It means I understand that standing out from the pack isn’t a absolute given.  It means my head isn’t stuffed with expectations built of moonbeams and cotton candy. It means that I understand I need to do research on how and why and what and all that related to self-publishing so I can at least know how the theory works while treading water in the deep end.

It also means “why bother?” is a big question.

What, exactly, do I want to accomplish by publishing? What is my definition of success? Is it really enough to know that I might have helped someone forget about their crappy day for a few minutes?

How greedy am I? (Very. I want to get paid fairly for my work, dammit. I want the recognition that I busted my ass for this story, not have some smarmy shithead boost my work and call it their own and make me fight for it every step of the way.)

I doubt I will ever truly stop writing. I know there will be times in which I simply can’t because of reasons, but I won’t ever really stop writing.

But is publishing really worth it?

In three days I’ll no doubt say “Yes! Of course! How is this even a question?”

Three months later I’ll probably be back at this point again, though.It is a recurrent thought. Hopefully I’ll have buried my head so deep in my writing that I’ll be able to ignore the doubts until they wander off again, but I know they’ll return. The doubts always return.

Unless I stop thinking. Again.