(no subject)
... Oh fuck. We've hit that stage of self-publishing trauma.
I'm very sure everyone out there who's written a damn thing they've considered putting out anywhere knows this trauma. It's the voice in my head that says you're not good enough to stand against the likes of Seanan McGuire, Elizabeth Bear, Ellen Kushner, Tanya Huff, Shannon Butcher, all those other people you follow and watch and read and admire from afar and skulk in corners to stare at, texts clutched in your hot little hands. It's the voice that says sure, you'll get a couple pity purchases from your friends, but it won't amount to anything. No one cares. You suck, and you're boring. Why bother. Give it up before you find out, inevitably, that your writing is bland and dry and it'll just sit there, forlorn and unloved, and never go anywhere.
I hate this stage. It comes and goes as predictable as the yearly spate of vitriol from politicians seeking election, and about as unwelcome. I suspect it's whispering loudly today partly because of being in an editing stage on many projects and partly because I'm buying a house. An awesome house. Which means packing and decorating and knitting my hope chest and surely there's all these other things I could be doing that would be more fun, more productive, than the pointless and futile exercise of self-publishing. Right? Right? Go do that instead.
Fuck you, voices. Fuck you very much.
No, there's no reason to expect that anyone will want to read my self-published novels. Anthologies, really, the anthology is coming out first. There's also no reason to assume failure. There is every reason to assume failure if I don't try. If I don't make the effort to become better, to publicize or at least make some timorous yawps, if I don't put the goddamn words on the goddamn page they will not exist. My editor and best friend isn't going to do it. My cheerleader and other best friend isn't going to do it. They're not going to automagically appear. And once they're there, they're not going to get better for sitting and gathering dust. The unnecessary digressions aren't going to take themselves off for wishing, and the descriptions aren't going to take on a magical and appealing glow on their own.
So, strap on your gear, girl. You were never doing this for the publicity or the adulation anyway, and it's not your sole source of income. So what is the goal, here? The goal is to get it done. To be a writer who has published a book, even if it's not the traditional route of banging your head against the brick walls of publishing company till your skull cracks and leaks fluid all over their floorboards. To be a writer who has published a book she can be proud of, that she knows she has done her best on. And not half-assed. You don't want to put out half-assed stuff, do you?
I didn't think so. You think you're not as good as all of them? Does that matter? Will being as good as they are or not so help you in any way to edit what you've written, compile it, and publish it? Is this a tool that you can use? Or is it a tool with a barbed-wire poison-touched shaft that sickens you every time you grab it? So stop grabbing. Idiot. You know how to do this. These women and men who have gone before you, yes, they leave tools scattered in their wake that you can see. Go ahead, pick those up. Use them to sand and polish and refine your work. But that one there, the one that says they love her so they'll hate me? Or worse, be in different? That's a rabid animal waiting to bite you. Kick it out of your way and move on.
Are we feeling better? Remember why you're doing this. Not for money, not for glory, not for fame. This is your story, and you're telling it because it is your story, one of the many you have to tell. So tell it the best way you can. And that's it. That's all you have to do. Now take a breath, dry your eyes. Grab your gear, and let's get going. You've got work to do.
I'm very sure everyone out there who's written a damn thing they've considered putting out anywhere knows this trauma. It's the voice in my head that says you're not good enough to stand against the likes of Seanan McGuire, Elizabeth Bear, Ellen Kushner, Tanya Huff, Shannon Butcher, all those other people you follow and watch and read and admire from afar and skulk in corners to stare at, texts clutched in your hot little hands. It's the voice that says sure, you'll get a couple pity purchases from your friends, but it won't amount to anything. No one cares. You suck, and you're boring. Why bother. Give it up before you find out, inevitably, that your writing is bland and dry and it'll just sit there, forlorn and unloved, and never go anywhere.
I hate this stage. It comes and goes as predictable as the yearly spate of vitriol from politicians seeking election, and about as unwelcome. I suspect it's whispering loudly today partly because of being in an editing stage on many projects and partly because I'm buying a house. An awesome house. Which means packing and decorating and knitting my hope chest and surely there's all these other things I could be doing that would be more fun, more productive, than the pointless and futile exercise of self-publishing. Right? Right? Go do that instead.
Fuck you, voices. Fuck you very much.
No, there's no reason to expect that anyone will want to read my self-published novels. Anthologies, really, the anthology is coming out first. There's also no reason to assume failure. There is every reason to assume failure if I don't try. If I don't make the effort to become better, to publicize or at least make some timorous yawps, if I don't put the goddamn words on the goddamn page they will not exist. My editor and best friend isn't going to do it. My cheerleader and other best friend isn't going to do it. They're not going to automagically appear. And once they're there, they're not going to get better for sitting and gathering dust. The unnecessary digressions aren't going to take themselves off for wishing, and the descriptions aren't going to take on a magical and appealing glow on their own.
So, strap on your gear, girl. You were never doing this for the publicity or the adulation anyway, and it's not your sole source of income. So what is the goal, here? The goal is to get it done. To be a writer who has published a book, even if it's not the traditional route of banging your head against the brick walls of publishing company till your skull cracks and leaks fluid all over their floorboards. To be a writer who has published a book she can be proud of, that she knows she has done her best on. And not half-assed. You don't want to put out half-assed stuff, do you?
I didn't think so. You think you're not as good as all of them? Does that matter? Will being as good as they are or not so help you in any way to edit what you've written, compile it, and publish it? Is this a tool that you can use? Or is it a tool with a barbed-wire poison-touched shaft that sickens you every time you grab it? So stop grabbing. Idiot. You know how to do this. These women and men who have gone before you, yes, they leave tools scattered in their wake that you can see. Go ahead, pick those up. Use them to sand and polish and refine your work. But that one there, the one that says they love her so they'll hate me? Or worse, be in different? That's a rabid animal waiting to bite you. Kick it out of your way and move on.
Are we feeling better? Remember why you're doing this. Not for money, not for glory, not for fame. This is your story, and you're telling it because it is your story, one of the many you have to tell. So tell it the best way you can. And that's it. That's all you have to do. Now take a breath, dry your eyes. Grab your gear, and let's get going. You've got work to do.