Thoughts on my journey as an author with a failed novel.
Seven years ago I had this crazy idea to write a book, The idea by all means was crazy, I have no professional experience as a writer, before that day I had no interest in writing, and I had absolutely no knowledge of the craft. I read books but I couldn’t even consider myself a “reader”.
Even still I started. I wrote, I wrote, I re-wrote and I wrote some more. For seven years I couldn’t wait until the evening when could put the kids to bed and get lost in my story. Sure it could be exhausting, and many nights I just stared at a screen or opted to peruse facebook rather than write but somehow, some way I finished a book.
I know it’s not the greatest book and looking at it now there are many things I would like to change about it, but the fact is its done. Its something I never imagined I could do so I chalked up this sudden inspiration to God’s will. He wanted me to write a book full of profanity and some sex I was certain of it. (This is a joke of course). But truthfully finishing the book felt truly divine.
But now it’s out and people know. Now I feel scared of what they will think of me, then I start obsessively checking every social media outlet I have. Then I start getting pissed off at people because they are not reviewing the book even after my pleas for support. Their buying it but not reading it which to me is worse than just not buying it at all. Now I’m here in this place that feels a lot like the waiting place in Dr. Suess's, All the Places You'll Go, it’s the worst place a person could be, well there is probably worse places but there is no other that is more frustrating. I’m just waiting to see if the book truly is the failure I expect it to be, waiting to see if I am inspired to write another book, waiting for at least one positive thing to come out of this.
Much of my frustration lies in the fact that what pushed me forward in writing the book is I didn’t want to feel regret. I didn’t want to be on my death bed regretting the book I never wrote. However, what I felt in these last few weeks that my book has been published seems much worse than regret, the closest feeling I can relate to a failed book is miscarriage, (I should know I had three).
It’s like you have this thing growing inside you and you think it’s fantastic and you love it. You do your best to nurture it and help it grow, you dream about how it will touch so many lives, and you daydream about the cover just like you would day dream about your potential babies face. But then its dead in the water. And it feels fucking awful, it is the most isolating pain that ever existed because you bear it alone, nobody loved that “baby” like you. And your bitter, so damn bitter. You know the only thing that will heal the pain is “having another baby” but that is scary as hell. That means you might potentially put yourself through this all over again. You might fail again and if you do you are certain you will not get up. It’s basically do or die, it could save you or it will put your right back in the dark place you are living in now.
I don’t know, if I could do it all over again I may have chosen regret.
P.S. I suck at grammar, spelling the whole nine yards that is why I had to spend a shit-load of money on a good editor for my book. Now I'm broke with a bad book, curse you life you cruel, cruel bitch!