The Big Day is almost here. It’s just a week to 01-13-13, and I have realized something. Writing is work. Not that I didn’t know that before, but when someone decides to publish, there is a bit less of the pure entertainment and a bit more of the career seriousness about it.
I now have not one but three email accounts, each with a different purpose. I posted a book preview on Youtube, and though it is far from perfect, more an experiment than what I would call an actual advertisement, I spent significant time and effort. I finally created a cover, using a photo I was actually quite impressed with out of my antique of a digital camera. I’ve begun researching tax laws (NOT fun). I’m trying to come up with other forms of marketing that won’t break my budget, including designing an author web page and figuring out how to do a Facebook fan page, just for starters. Fun, but intimidating. I spent roughly five hours making sure my manuscript is formatted correctly (and couldn’t keep the editing bug still even then, which only made it longer.) All after losing a day because of food poisoning/stress/upset (we lost two of our dogs on Wednesday. It was tough, and a shock, but the way they went downhill so fast at the same time was almost like they wanted to go together. I do love picturing them waiting at the edge of the Rainbow Bridge, fighting like siblings and driving God and His son crazy.) I’m exhausted. And I’m loving it.
It’s not that I expect the book to do well. I’ll be lucky to sell one. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take it seriously.
The sad part is I still don’t feel myself to be a “real” writer. I have no problem calling other self-published authors a legitimate author who has (at least usually) paid their dues in blood, sweat, and tears over their work. I have no issues with telling other self-published writers that they most definitely ARE real writers and have earned the title by the time and love invested in their words. But not me. I don’t feel “real” because I haven’t been chosen by a publisher or agent. I’m not a writer because millions of people worldwide have not read my stories. I suppose most people hold themselves up to the harshest criticism. Maybe someday I’ll feel worthy of my own words.
Alas, I have come to the end of my inspiration for tonight. Still feeling a bit weak after Friday night’s anything but fun. And I still have to come up with an author profile that doesn’t sound pretentious, like a Jersey Shore-worthy bragging session, or just plain pitiful. Yikes. Self-promotion is my Kryptonite.
Don’t let anyone tell you self publishing is the “easy” way. There’s no such thing as an “easy” way.
RIP Gizzmo and Frankie