I haven’t written here in a while for various reasons, and I wish I could promise that I will write here more often, but I can’t. The truth is that I haven’t written at all because I haven’t felt the least bit creative or witty. I banged my head against a concrete wall repeatedly in a great effort to make my self-published book go somewhere—anywhere—even down a short road or a parking space, but it didn’t.
My sixteen-year-old daughter advised me against self-publishing. I knew what I was up against, but I felt I had nothing to lose since it had been sitting unread in digital form for a decade, and I knew that getting it conventionally published was a long shot. Around 2008, I had sent a handful of queries that were responded with rejections. This did not surprise me. I just let this, like writing turn into obession, and let getting the damn thing published take over. I emotionally tried to hard. I tried starting a blog to rouse up interest, but none resulted. No more than a handful visited, I felt the need to preform and the importance of each post grew. I woke up early to write. I took notes at work and on the train. Obsessed. That’s how my mind works.
There were so many versions of my memoir. I couldn’t/can’t afford an editor. It got to the point where I couldn’t read it anymore. Every sentence needed to be crafted. Every sentence sounded silly. My mother and sister would proofread each version and every time that I went over the typos, I would change something that created more typos. The few read, mostly people in it, would tell me how good it was. I would take out things to be nice. I changed it too much. I found myself constantly combating the grammar police. I became embarrassed that people out there had versions that had that had any typos at all. My daughter’s English teacher downloaded a copy! I defended my title, which I should have forseen, over and over, and over again, why it was everday and not every day. Every second, I second guessed my talent.
People would comment that it seemed exaggerated. My warped perception of reality surely exaggerated the negative. Depression tends to do that, but the actions of the individuals, their words, were exactly as I remembered it. None of that was untrue. And Vanessa’s reaction and vendetta, well, I won’t get into that right now.
I didn’t write it to become famous, but I did hope it would result in something. I gave away hundreds of copies and only got one review from that. Most were given to Facebook friends. I even begged for reviews. Begged. On Facebook. And got zero. This hurt, so I quit.
My skin is not that thick, it turns out. This is why it took me ten years to do anything with it. Oh well. It’s time to move on. So, I will.