One thirty AM and my brain is working overtime. My body is exhausted and I will hate myself tomorrow but I can’t stop thinking.
I’m having some sort of small existential crisis.
I have failed at being a self-published author.
Twice. I tried to crowdfund a poetry chapbook and that didn’t work. I published it on Lulu anyway and it has never made money. I’m looking into suspending it’s availability for now. I self-published a novella about two years later and that has never made any money. I am, however, very proud of “With Teeth” and I love that I can hold it in hands. I love that my friends, family and acquaintances can buy it and hold it in their hands. But I have to admit to myself that it has failed. I even tried putting it up on Channillo because I thought I could get in on the ground floor of something new. I never made enough money to actually have my earnings paid out to me.
Money, money, money. That is a key word in the above paragraph but it’s never actually been about the money to me. While I would love to help supplement my family’s income with my writing, it is not necessary. I am frustrated because I have no reach. My dream since I was a little girl was to be published. Traditionally published. I just wanted people to read my words. To be moved, to be entertained. I want to mark my place in immortality.
They say not to write for anyone but yourself. I don’t. While I often have doubts (which I’m sure I will express here), I never think to write for trends. For what will make the big bucks. For what is selling right now. I write what is in my heart to write. In that I am successful.
But I can’t help tonight, thinking about the little girl who would walk into the bookstore and dream to see her name on one of the spines.