I’ve often seen a Facebook meme about the life of an author.
What I think I do, what my mom thinks I do, what society thinks I do, what I want to do, and what I really do.
While it’s a pretty comical little picture, I don’t think people realize how much of it is true.
So many times I’ve heard, “But you’re, like, famous now. Making a ton of money and people all over the world know you know. It just must be so wonderful.”
Ha. Famous. That’s knee-slapping, head jerking back, hilarious.
Ha. Making a ton of money. If people only really knew the paychecks of an author.
Ha. People all over the world know me. Don’t make me laugh.
Ha. It just must be so wonderful . . . Okay, I’ll stop with that one because deep down, seeing my creations in my hand and on my mantel is pretty wonderful.
However, with all that said, I have to admit that the glitz and glamour of writing . . . well, at least for me is pretty much just sitting around drinking massive amounts of tea in my fuzzy pants while crossing my fingers every morning that I’ve sold another book or have a new review.
Let’s face it unless you’re the likes of one who has scored a major movie deal or is selling a New York Times Best Seller, selling books to the masses is hard. Real hard.
It’s not full of glitz. It’s not full of glamor. It’s not full of riches.
It’s full of sweat, tears, and time away from our families, almost to the point of making us wonder if the endeavor is really worth it.
It’s moments of not just wanting to bash our heads into a wall or table, but actually doing it.
It’s moments of self-doubt and self-loathing that would rival any mental breakdown.
It’s riding an emotional roller coaster of wanting reviews, but having to face the bad ones.
It’s the “this is awesome” to “this sucks so bad” crash that gives you whiplash.
And the worse part about all of this self-inflicted misery is even with its flaws, the passion an author has for writing, for their works-in-progress, and for their craft can make any other addiction look like a hobby. Those who crave this form of drug know all too well that without it, we wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves.
Which is why we brave the storm of emotions every day when we sit down in front of our computers. We stare down the doubt, ride the roller coaster, and pop pain meds for the whiplash. We do all of this because we know if we don’t we will regret it.
Like the need for a sadistic pleasure we smile and keep typing. Will it be the next bestseller or will it tank, we have no idea. While we don’t want it to tank, not getting it out there at all would be worse, so we don’t really care.
I guess that’s where we should find the glamour. Even if I’m just sitting in my fuzzy pants, I’m still doing what I love whether other people will enjoy my stories or not. Not everyone in the world is that lucky.
But I am.