No Pity Party for My Publishing Failures

My husband is a songwriter/music producer/musician. His way of letting off job steam was to spend Friday and Saturday nights working on music. That meant I needed to find something productive to do with my time. I blogged a lot on my music blog---a lot. A couple posts per week, in fact. The problem was, with that kind of schedule I began to run out of things to write about, so I shifted the blog's focus a bit and began recording memories that had a tie-in to music. It was eye-opening to find how much I'd forgotten until I deliberately set out to jog my brain. The music helped. Certain songs have the ability to take me back to a very specific time and place; what was happening at the time, even the conversations, but especially the emotions I felt.

I don't know why, specifically, but I think it's important to document one's life, even if you're not famous or known by more than a handful of people. Those blog posts led me to write my memoir. I admit, as the story progressed I envisioned publishing it. Why not? Publishing was free, and I felt quite proud of my writing.

That was 2012, and book buyers weren't yet jaded, so I ended up selling eleven copies (don't scoff). Eventually, I unpublished the book, because I'd stupidly included real names in it, and I realized I had no right to do that. It was fine to bare my soul to the world, but selfish and inappropriate to "out" other people. If I was to publish that book today, I'd certainly employ more common sense.

That first taste of publishing was thrilling, and I wondered if I could maybe be good at writing fiction. Writing that first novel was the most fun I'd had in years. It was also frustrating at times, but seeing the words flow, inhabiting each character, controlling their destinies...magic. 

Well, the finished story wasn't very good, but that wasn't necessarily the point. The point was that I loved writing it. During the hours when I couldn't write, I thought about writing it. 

Over the next decade, I wrote a lot, and I published all of it. It wasn't until people online kept emphasizing selling that I started to feel bad about myself. Everyone was selling but me. I sank into FOMO, so I tiptoed into marketing, just a little bit at first; then with my most recent novel, far too much. 

I became so desperate to sell that the heart-pounding joy of writing got lost. Instinctively I knew that I'd become a much better writer than when I started, but I wouldn't even let myself revel in that accomplishment. I obviously wasn't good enough, or else people would be reading my books. 

I didn't like the person I'd become. Constantly checking my sales report, eager but not eager to find new reviews, searching desperately for marketing schemes that would work this time. (Yes, they're all detailed here in this blog.)

And I felt sorry for myself. I turned into the person you hate to see on your doorstep, always whining about how life is unfair. 

Then it finally hit me---why I ever wrote in the first place. Because I loved it. I loved the entire process. Even the parts I didn't necessarily love at the time became challenges I was determined to conquer. And I was so proud of myself when I did.

The truth of the matter is, many of us publish because publishing is available and it's easy. Fifty years ago my words would have only existed on the pages of a bound journal. I still would have liked those words, though. I still would have felt exhilarated writing them.  

I forgot. I forgot the reason why I ever began tapping out words. 

So no, I'm not a failure. A failed saleswoman, yes. But I didn't start out craving a career in advertising. I started out just wanting to write. Loving to write.

"The Failed Author" is true, yet not true. It depends on how you define failure. I could probably land more readers if I'd named this site, "The Successful Author", because everyone would want to know the secret. 

Belatedly, I think I finally found it:

Do what you love.