On meeting Anna Nalick and my second book-iversary

This last weekend may go down as the most epic in Beth soon-to-be Stoneburner history: I bought my wedding dress, met Anna Nalick, and reflected on the 2^nd anniversary of my first book baby, Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter.

For those who have never heard of Amazing Anna (and sadly, many people haven’t, since she left her old record label several years ago), Anna Nalick is a self-described “indie artist,” which makes her the patron artist of indie authors. She is the incredible voice behind one of my favorite songs of all time, “Breathe,” as well as the lesser-known song “These Old Wings” that helped get me through the worst depression of my entire life.

Can I just say, aside from being wicked talented and a sweet, down-to-earth person who tells stories during her concerts, it’s so amazing to see a successful artist humbly admit to struggling with depression herself. It reminded me that it’s often a source of great art, be it music or literature. I can never have enough of those reminders. I want people to feel the same about my books the way I feel about Anna’s music.

She talked about autobiographical writing as a way of freezing yourself in time. Your beliefs and personality may develop through the years, but when you put yourself out there to be read or listened to, you are in a sense forever bound to who you were at that time. 

That’s how I feel about Confessions. That book was not intended to become a bestseller. Writing it was my way of processing through the conflict of adopting beliefs that are wildly different from the ones my parents taught me, so it reads very much like the journal of a confused woman who is gradually becoming aware of her inner strength. I do not have the same doubts or beliefs that I did when it was published. But I’ve also become stronger in certain beliefs I was shaky about at the time. I can still sense the turmoil when I flip through it every now and then.

My writing has greatly improved in the last two years, along with my knowledge of the publishing industry and marketing (and in a rapidly changing industry like this, there is always more to learn!). I had this idea that having a book available for purchase meant it would sell on its own. I couldn’t be more wrong! Despite working on my fifth book, I’m not beating myself up for not being “bigger” than I’d like to be, since I only actively started marketing when my third book was released last August. Confessions may remain my only memoir for the time being, as I quite enjoy the freedom of inserting my own experiences into my characters, without locking myself into a certain set of beliefs or characteristics. I’m also aware that the average 25-year-old is not world-weary enough for more than one memoir (or even just one).

But today feels like a birthday. So from this day forward, I can only learn more. 

Reality of The Writing Life: not as glamorous as it seems

If being a writer is a profession that leads to more tears, sweat, and frustration than most people realize, why am I reluctant to admit that I am one?

It’s a job that makes me feel like I’m constantly bragging, even if I don’t intend to: “What do you do?” “I’m an author. I’ve written four books.” Maybe it’s the amount of time that impresses people; I know it’s difficult to finish reading a book sometimes, let alone write one. I’ll concede that that aspect of The Writing Life is worthy of admiration.

But what really gets me is the impression of instant stardom that comes with publishing. I’ve actually had people ask me more than once if I’ve made the New York Times best-seller’s list yet. As far as I can tell, they aren’t being sarcastic when they ask. And while it’s such an innocent question with complimentary undertones, it’s yet another reminder of just how difficult the job really is. It’s exhausting. It’s mind-numbingly tedious at times.

But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Even still, I want people to get a few things straight. When people think of “writers,” perhaps they think of people like JK Rowling: a true-life Cinderella story if there ever was one. How many people know about Joanne Rowling, the destitute single mother, before she achieved JK Rowling status? She faced twelve rejections from publishing houses before Harry Potter was released. Like I said, lots of tears, sweating, and frustration involved.

Good books – and the fruits of good books – don’t happen overnight, or even in a year. For most of us who will never be the next JK Rowling, we count on our readers to help us because without them, we would be nothing. Sure, we write because we would be doing that anyway, but it’s the readers who help make the difference between writing as a hobby and writing as a career.

Whether you’re self-published or being helped by an agent of a traditional publishing house, the burden of marketing yourself is never completely removed. As an independent author, I am not just an author. I’m an entrepreneur. I’m my own advertiser and PR firm. I do this and more for enough royalties to keep funding my Starbucks addiction, and that’s just the beginning. Combine these aspects together, and you’ve got a full-time job. Sure, I can wear pajamas and set my own hours, but if I am not grounded in self-discipline, nothing would get done.

This is my passion. This is my life. This is all I can imagine myself doing, and even if I find myself wanting to throw my laptop out the window because the words just aren’t coming, or they do come, and they suck, this is the only life for me.

So what am I asking of you, the reader? Your role is more important than you know. If you like a book, tell your friends. Write a brief review on Amazon. It doesn’t have to be a book report; just simply explain how it affected you, and how the author could improve it. Pin, share, re-tweet. And repeat. We can’t thank you enough.

I guess I don't have to be famous after all

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.