RobArt Penguin

I was updating my author page when I realized I hadn’t added an entry on my blog site for a while. The question became what to say. Asking myself that question became pressure, and with pressure I clammed up … writer’s block.

So, to start, I want to write something funny, a silly anecdote from my youth, but that’s not where I’m at right now. I write best from the place I’m in presently, which is not silly. I’m anxious about the money I’m spending to promote my new book and the waiting period before the investment pays off, if it does. I received a book review today that was okay, good but not great. The reviewer quibbled on a few things and found a couple of typos. The perfectionist in me went crazy and I put up revisions as fast as I could. Sometimes, I wonder if I should interact with the public, because I don’t have a thick skin, which is necessary.

So, I’m down about how hard it is to make my books stand out and wish I had made a bunch of social choices differently in my past that would give me a network I could rely on for support in the publication biz. Yes, I envy the people who put out books with traditional publishers and get buzz right away, but that’s a set up to make me feel low. Yet, the brass ring has its appeal.

I could chase the glory and “write to market,” which might change things, or not. Buzz, accolades and sales may never come. If they did and I wasn’t proud of the books I wrote, the praise might feel hollow.

I’m in this somber mood because I though my new Rattz series had more potential for a wider audience than my first esoteric series. But the problem is the same: I’m unknown, unproven. The market is uber competitive, millions of titles coming out every year. No one is going to find me on page 200 of the Amazon search results. Sure, there’s tricks to rise near the top, but it’s a slog, and takes time and money. So, the new book might have more potential, but nothing magical will happen. I’ve got to work at it.

I talk with many Indie authors. They face this too. And we all keep going, pushed by something we can’t explain. Herman Melville died thinking his book, Moby Dick, was a failure. I tell my kids if my books pop after I pass away, make sure to send me an email to the great beyond … so I know. But they get the royalty checks.