It’s that time
again. The time when I’m just about ready to click that “publish” button for a
fourth time, and I’ll tell you: the rush never changes. It’s exciting. It’s
empowering.
But it’s also a
moment that calls for some self-evaluation. After all, it’s my fourth book. My
fourth book at the age of 25, and I have yet to be named, let alone considered,
as a best-selling author in any notable book review journal. So am I doing
okay? Am I doing anything right at all?
What’s the point
of asking these questions, anyway?
I created
something I love, and am proud to have my name on. That’s what matters. The
small circle of “fans” (that feels slightly pretentious) I’ve acquired are not
part and parcel of this whole author experience: they are earned. And their
reviews tell me that they appreciate my work not because I’m a hot new name in
fiction, but because they connect with my stories. They recognize themselves in
them.
That’s what matters.
But I’m someone
who has wanted to be famous her entire life. There’s still a part of me that
looks at my sales, my number of Twitter followers, compares them to those of
other indie authors, and thinks I’m not
doing enough. However, there’s a huge difference between putting work out
there to be noticed, and putting work out there to say something real. If my
only desire is to be noticed, to become some sort of household name, then I
will always be disappointed, because there will always be someone else topping
new charts that didn’t exist yesterday, selling more copies, and gaining more
Twitter followers.
It’s funny how
you can find a high school-style hierarchy in just about any occupation or
hobby: no matter what you do, you will always, at some point, feel like a geek
while someone else is being crowned prom queen. Well, the latest New York Times
best-seller is the prom queen. I guess that makes me a mathlete or something?
I’m in the
process of re-evaluating the real reasons I want to be famous. Not
can’t-buy-toilet-paper-without-paparazzi-snapping-my-picture famous,
but…famous. Significant. No, more like an important historic figure. Someone to
be read about in history books, not People magazine.
And the more I
think about it, the more I understand that my reasons for desiring fame are
kind of stupid. I’m not “that special” of a person. I’m just a woman with
something to say. So I write it down, publish it, and am blessed by the handful
of reviews from people who tell me that they see their own stories in my work.
I’ve made a few new friends out of this journey into publishing; friends I
wouldn’t have met any other way, because they are as close as Philadelphia and
as far away as England. They aren’t established critics, but they are people
whose voices matter just as much as my own. And when they tell me that
something I wrote resonated with them, it means the world.
And that is why
I continue to write. Fame or no fame, I think I’m doing okay for myself.
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