As I sit here, I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t even know if what I write is any good, but I’m compelled to do it. Except for a one-time stint in my college newspaper and an entry in a short-fiction writing contest many years ago, I had never publicly shared my work except with a few family and friends until this blog.
So somewhere in the last year or so, I decided that I would like to eventually test the publication waters, but I’m finding that those waters are pretty deep and I would represent only a tiny drop of what’s out there. There are all sorts of things that I’m learning about. Like how hard it is to even get anyone to look at your work and that you should be prepared for rejection after rejection. Or, how many writers have turned to self-publishing because of the latter statement, but that is even difficult. I have even learned that some of my favorite authors who have been on the NY Times Bestsellers List several times over started out as self-published writers, selling their first books literally out of the trunks of their cars. Sure, they’re successful now, but look how long it took.
So, from the looks of things, I have been living under a rock about this whole “getting published” thing. I guess I should have did my homework before getting my hopes up and thinking my “stories” were any different than anybody else’s. I should have realized that there are thousands of others out there that have the same dream and the same ambition as I do.
Will all of this discourage me from writing? Probably not. I’ve been doing it since I was six. Just for fun. Not to get published. Not for anybody’s approval. Not for money. Just because. So I will certainly continue to put the things I see in my head down on paper and let them transform into a story. And maybe that’s the key. Maybe I shouldn’t stress myself over whether I will or will not get published. Maybe I should still write like I was six. Just for fun…just because.