So, this writing biz ain’t always an easy gig.
Well, let’s be honest. It’s tricky AF.
I write, I publish, I try to let the world know I exist, but I don’t know that the word is getting very far. I don’t have much for sales each month. I go to local craft fairs and art shows and sell my books there, which is great, but the most I’ve ever sold at one of those is 30 books, which isn’t exactly going to tip me into best-sellerdom anytime soon.
Periodically, this gets me down.
Logically, I know I need to get into the marketing scene, I need to let people online know about my books. But that’s been intimidating, so I haven’t been very good at it. I need to get over that and start moving into that part of book business, and I have been making baby steps. But baby steps yield baby results, and I can’t help but sigh and get down when those baby results are all I get.
So last week, I had a complete meltdown about being a “failure” and never getting anywhere with my books, about how I am 41 years old and maybe need to go get a real job instead of working these crappy menial jobs that give me time to work on my writing. I cried. Pretty hard. My husband told me I was being silly, that I love writing and I shouldn’t give up on something that makes me happy. Sniffling, I agreed, but I didn’t feel a whole lot better.
Later that same day, a friend of mine send me a message asking if we could get together. She wanted to buy me some wine and talk about writing. I love both of those things, so of course I said yes. Once we’d caught up on each other’s lives, I asked what she wanted to talk about. She said, “How much I like your books!”
I can’t even say how happy that made me. I can’t even say how much I needed to hear that right then.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, but my story gets better.
See, this kind of thing happens to me all the time. There’s a distinct pattern.
My book sales are flat. I sell one at Amazon for a month, maybe two at Smashwords, maybe twelve at a book fair. I’m too tired to write after a bad shift at work, and I just wish I could write and make a living from that and not have to go to work. I get sad. I get worked up. Eventually, I melt down and cry over it. I worry that I’ve wasted my life and the opportunities I could have had if I’d only NOT decided to be an author.
And then I get a piece of fan mail. Or I run into someone I know personally who’s read my books and they rave at me about how much they love them.
So far, it’s 1 for 1. 1 panic attack over my failures, 1 person finds me and tells me how much they can’t wait for my next book.
It gives me just the boost I need to keep going, it brings me back from the edge of totally giving up. It reminds me that what I’m doing is worthwhile, that it does matter, and that all I need to do is figure out the marketing. I’m a damn fine story teller. People like my books, they like the people I invent, they want to know what happens next. I’ve got this.
I’ve got this.
