So, I wrote a thing. Specifically, I wrote a novel.
I wrote a novel, I edited it, I asked some friends and family members to read through it and give me the brutal truth. I edited some more. And then, I did nothing. Well, shit.
Self-publishing is awesome. I have so much respect for the people who put their work out there and just GO FOR IT. I’ve been toying with the idea for months, but I have yet to act on it. Fear is part of the equation, without a doubt. I’ve never taken a writing class or had a mentor or anything of the sort. I started writing on my own; for many years it was a solitary practice, and putting my work out into the world is still a strange and somewhat terrifying prospect, even if the reaction to my flash fiction has been very positive so far.
More than anything else, though, there’s that little girl who hid in libraries and got yelled at on a daily basis for reading in class. I want to make her proud, because this dream is valid. This dream matters to the child I was and the woman I am. However insane and impractical it is in the Internet age, I want to hold a book, MY BOOK, in my hands. So, I’ve decided to query and pitch and dive into all the craziness involved, even as I debate the logic of that choice on a daily basis.
Anyone else have this issue?
Meredith Foster 