The past two weeks have been pretty eye opening for me as a writer. I feel like this happens at least three times a month, and it’s mainly because my reading on the subject is expanding pretty rapidly. At first I thought promotion was key, as I’ve said a lot in the past. I’m beginning to think it doesn’t matter as much, or certainly not at the expense of writing.
Part of it’s remembering why you started what you do. I remember my first story; I felt like I had created something, a life almost. I’m not exaggerating when I say that. I felt I had given life to some kind of being. Every time I finish a work, I get the same feeling. That’s why I got into this. That’s why I’m obsessed with the written word. Telling stories is hard work, but when it’s done–well, there’s not much else that can bring me to tears so easily.
I didn’t get into this gig to write a thousand book reviewers about my book. I didn’t get into this business to check my sales every day or to make sure my goodreads rating hasn’t dropped below 3.5. In the past month I’ve done two book club signings. That’s why I do this. To talk to people who like what I read, to see what it makes them feel, what they think and then compare it to my own beliefs about the work.
I do this, because when you get it right, there isn’t anything else in the world that feels so good. I need to do more of that and less of the rest.