Not letting it get to me...
Dealing with the ups and downs of the writer’s life
I’ve been a published author since 2004. That translates to a lot of book signings. But just in case you think the image is from one of my store events, let me be totally honest (because that’s what writers should be, even if we’re writing fiction, which often is still very honest even if made up), that’s an image taken by Melanie Klepper of people waiting in line to get into a Louis Vuitton store.
I have never had people lined up outside a bookstore waiting to have me sign my books. Or, for that matter, I have never had people lined up inside a bookstore for the same reason. Or people crowding around my table, afraid they won’t get a chance to talk to me before I leave for my next SRO event.
(Although I did have one woman who came up to me at a Barnes & Noble signing who said she had all my books so far and wanted to make sure she got my newest one. And who told the other people standing there what a great writer I was. I wonder if I could pay her to come to all my events…)
I have also never sold out all my books at an event, like so many other authors have, who then post on social media: “I had my first signing, and I sold every book I bought!” I’d like to think that’s because I bring copies of all my books, and with 10 out so far, that is a lot to stack on my table or people to buy.
(Maybe the trick is to only bring a few of my latest, and then when they are gone, I can say I had a sold-out event, too…)
I would be less than truthful (there it is again—that honesty thing) if I said that it didn’t matter how many books I sell. Or how many great reviews my books earn. Or how many awards I can claim for my work.
Of course it does. I’m only human, right? And considering I’ve been writing a lot longer than I’ve been published—since second grade, if you must know—I’ve had a really long time of being a published but still relatively unknown author, and even longer time of being an unpublished writer. Decades, in fact.
Although you would think I would be used to it—being a relatively unknown author who barely sells enough to keep the neighborhood feral cats in food—but I’m not. And the older I get, the more I am conscious of that pervading feeling that I am running out of time.
Running out of time to “make it big.” (When will I get a call from a Hollywood studio that wants to turn one of my novels or short stories into a movie??)
Running out of time to be included on the XYZ Best Seller list. Or even be a runner up on that list. Or to be included on any list!
Running out of time to be able to stop having to seek out freelance work and instead spend my time just writing and holding writing workshops.
Does any of this sound like something you’re dealing with?
The challenge is to not let it get to me. Or, if you’re struggling with the same issue, to not let it get to you.
And when it does—and believe me, if it hasn’t already, it will, like it did after one signing where I was there for three hours and sold only one book!—I have to find a way to deal with it.
Or more than one way, since I never know what will work at any given point in time.
So what do I do to help counteract that “why am I doing this to myself???” feeling?
First, I try to think of the people I talked to at my book events. It doesn’t even have to be someone who bought any of my books. Just somebody whom I interacted with, had a conversation with, connected with.
The woman who came into the store after leaving the funeral of someone dear to her and just needed someone to talk to.
Or another younger woman who had lost several close family members in a short period of time and was struggling to cope with all the emotions.
Or an older woman who was excited to tell me what she planned to do with her life now that she was retired and the kids were gone.
Or another woman who told me she had taken up oil painting in her seventies and was amazed to discover she had a talent for it.
(Yes, I know it sounds like all I do is talk to women, but they seem to have the most to say. Or maybe it’s because I write novels about midlife women—their lives and experiences—so they gravitate to my table.)
What else do I do to soothe my writer’s soul? I think about why I am doing this writing thing instead of something else that might be more stable or lucrative or come with a pension.
Why write when I don’t even know if what I’m writing is any good? Why write when I don’t even know if anyone will read it? Why write when what I write doesn’t fit into one of the popular genres?
Here’s why. Because I can’t not write. It’s the way my brain is wired. It’s the way my mind goes. Because nothing makes me feel better or more satisfied or more fulfilled—nothing makes me feel more me, if you know what I mean—than when I write something that has the possibility of being good.
(Not perfect, mind you, and not as good as it would be if I wrote it a year from now, but good for me and where I’m at in my writing life at that moment.)
For example, I’m working on a short story for a collection that has been noodling around in my mind for nearly a year. I can see the vague outlines of the whole book and how this story fits into the overall theme.
Yesterday, before I left for a signing, I did the first full draft of it. And when I read it over before I closed the file, I could see the little boy, I could feel his fear and pain and sense of isolation. He was as real to me as a real person because, to me, he is a real person. He exists somewhere out there, and the next time I open the file to work on the story, he’ll come back to me and stand by my desk and tell me more about who he is and what he’s going to do to try to survive in the hard life he’s living.
That’s really why I write: to bring all those people from where they are in my mind onto the page and maybe even someday into a reader’s mind and heart.
But first and foremost, to allow them to live, to speak to me, to tell me their stories.
So, despite the non-SRO events, despite the books that go from my trunk onto the bookstore table only to have the majority of them go back into my trunk until the next event, despite the royalty amounts that might be in double digits but have yet to have a comma in the dollar figure, I go on writing. I keep on writing.
I am still writing.
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