Okay, I confess. Some days the rainbows and unicorns and shiny baubles of finally getting a publisher who wants to publish your book aren’t enough. They scare away your doubt crows right enough but the bloody things keep coming back.
So what you sold six books this year? That doesn’t mean readers will buy ANY of them.
You’re just one of thousands trying to get people to buy your book. You’ll never get noticed.
You only write boring contemporary romance and not even erotic contemporary romance at that. No one’s interested in that kind of thing.
Your characters are too left field. People won’t identify with them.
Write much hotter otherwise you’ll miss the 50 Shades boat.
Write something else otherwise you’ll miss the 50 Shades boat.
You’re missing the 50 Shades….Oh, too late. It’s gone. Sucker.
These are just some of the wonderful crows that have been pecking me of late. Now I did know that everything suddenly wasn’t going to get magically better upon having something accepted (I DID! It’s true!). Or that I’d never have crises of confidence again. Or that things would get a hell of a lot easier. I DID know that. It’s just that, well, all the above doubts didn’t really become real until your release date looms closer and you realise that following your passion and making it your profession has some unforseen difficulties. Like the stakes becoming a LOT higher and the possibility of failure that much more frightening.
Because I don’t write to make a little bit of pin money to fuel my habit for antique doilies. Or because dashing off a couple of romances into between G&Ts is a good way of passing the time. Or because I can’t find a real job and have to do something.
No. I write because I have to. Because I can’t stop. Because after years of being a good-ish librarian, I want to be a GREAT writer. (okay, so not great as in Tolstoy/Hemingway great. Great as in ‘woohoo, that was a damn good read’ great. Got it? Good).
Oh yeah and I’d like to make a living from it. If that’s not too much to ask.
And this is the difficulty with passions because if it doesn’t come to pass, then you’ve got so much more to lose.
Anyway, given my personality type and my ability to worry about/over-analyse everything, I’ve decided that being a writer is very probably the worst thing for me to be doing. But what else can I do? It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to be.
I guess the only thing to do, when the doubt crows circle, whether published or unpublished, is to keep writing more stories. Try not to let the doubts and fears and worries paralyse you. Keep looking forward, not back. *tells self*
What do you guys do with the doubts? Chocolate? Retail therapy? Alcohol???