So, now that I’ve accomplished what I set out to do for the year, and after all of the self-inflicted excitement I experienced as a result … I’m feeling a little down.
The adrenalin rush is over, like the way I thought I wanted that story I just published to be over so that I could move on to other, new and exciting stories that began to pop up and swirl around inside my mind, distracting me from the work I needed to stay focused on and polish until it shone as bright as a star.
So that it would be worthy of publication, and good enough to share with others.
In another life, I gave birth to two beautiful babies, and both times there was the sneaking up slowly of a dark rain cloud above my head – exactly like the kind sometimes depicted in editorial cartoons – just not funny-like. Both times I let a few tears shed, even started to dwell on the sad thoughts that started to creep up on me at that time. Still, I had read enough on the topic prior to those births to know what was going on, and I refused to let it happen.
Again, I kind a/sort a did the same thing this time around, with the new baby I just gave birth to and then presented to the world of readers. I had to ignore the sadness that crept up and made me realize it was over – done – and that there was no turning back now. What’s done is done, and I’m responsible for my decision to publish without the help of an agent or publishing house to guide me through the process.
Learning experiences are a good thing. Trial by error … not so much. Not this time, anyway. As I mentioned in the last post, this is a make or break thing here, and one that hovers over the rest of my life now. The book will either sink or swim, and until I know for sure what people think about my writing, I’m left in this kind of limbo, alone and surrounded by whiteness.
By no means whatsoever do I plan to quit writing. It’s impossible even if no one likes what I write. It’s likely I’ll write up until the day I can’t write anymore. Having this can’t-be-ignored desire turn into an income generating career is another goal, and not to become stinking rich or famous, because I’m the type who wishes to have attention elude me.
Working on letting my latest child wander off on his own in a cold, cruel world and wonder/worry about whether I did and said all of the right things to help that child survive need to leave my mind now.
The book is in print, and it’s time to move on.
Then it finally dawned on me … I’m using a pseudonym. No one really knows who I am online because I wanted it that way. Even the name used for this blog isn’t entirely true, and neither are any of my e-mail addresses. SAFE.
Maybe this wasn’t the right decision, or the right time, or even the right story to present to the world, but I can always try, try again. If people end up really hating it, I can always use another name for my next attempt.
That thought made me laugh, which was what I really needed to do in order to shake this unexpected melancholy moment after having been so excited, thrilled with the decision to go the Indie route.
There must be others out there who felt the same way, right?
Onward and upward!