Everything Old is New Again

I have been disappointed. I have been naive. As it turns out, my relationship with writing is, sadly, a tenuous one. It would appear it has a very light hold on me, indeed, even though it sinks down to my blood. Isn't that strange?

Here's what I mean: I haven't written anything in months. I haven't been peddling my published novel or put any energy at all into the old career I've ever wished to have.

I get disappointed. It happened in college, as an English major, when I would encounter throngs of the stereotypical self-assigned "writers." You know them. We've all heard them. It's hard not to. They shout from the rooftops that they're writers and they carry their leather-bound journals and greet you with pretense. They use that title as an excuse. They use it as a descriptor. They use it, and they even do it. They take the classes. They put in the work. But do they feel it? Perhaps. Who am I to judge? I just know it completely threw me off the scent. If that's what a writer was, I knew I didn't fit.

Fast forward some years, and for the first time since I was a child, I actually listened. When I did, I heard the call again. So I came back, full-force, determined not to let anyone make me feel like I couldn't. Or shouldn't. Not when they laughed at me at my day job because I cut my own hours so I could write. Not through all of the rejection emails from querying my novel to publishers and agents, and let me tell you, there were a lot. That is, when I actually heard back at all.

Then I got my wish. My dream came true. I am so grateful, and I always will be. My publisher believed in me. They believed in my work.

What I didn't realize was becoming a writer was like opening up any other business - you have to have startup funding. Well, I had none of that. I didn't know that many authors actually pay to have those flattering reviews that are printed on the book jackets. They pay to be featured. They pay for ads. Damn.

I tried to hustle, anyway. I saved my money and paid for a couple of reviews, a couple of ads I could afford. I posted, I shared, I reached out to friends and family. That's not like me. Here's a tidbit for you: I actually wanted to publish only under a pen name, but it turns out that isn't very prudent when it comes to the logistics, especially when selling your wares to friends and family.

So I've since been committed again to my full-time day job. You could say it's a means to an end. I have been saving so I can launch another round of marketing. But I no longer have the time to work on my next novel (and the next, and the next). What is one to do? I miss writing. I miss being able to wrap the English language around me like a soft fleece blanket.

I will keep trying, my friends. Life has always been harder for the working class. We must never cease fighting for what we know we're born to do.