Yes, I am an author. I have two series, one of which is a seasonal romance series. There is a society of secret Santas who recruit people who show the spirit of giving. Couples get caught in the Christmas spirit and fall in love. When the inevitable tribulations come along, they have to battle circumstances — and mostly themselves — to find their happily ever after.
The second series is called Hidden in Plain Sight, and involves an agricultural collective whose land has been taken over by a demigod and whose history involves preternatural beings and a battle that almost doomed humanity. Its people are a people of secrets, and their concerns are both otherworldly and very, very human.
This is the longest I have gone without writing. I am concerned about this, because I’m afraid I’m losing the habit. I can think of some reasons I have had so much trouble writing.
First reason is that I am facing the fact that my books may never get enough readers. It takes a miracle to get attention. Or notoriety, but I’m reluctant to go that far to get readers. I usually combat this by reminding myself that my focus should be on writing for the sake of writing. That doesn’t always work.
4×4 or truck stuck in the mud at sunset on the Applegate Trail, Black Rock Desert, NW Nevada, US
Which brings me to crippling self-doubt. I compare myself to people who get published and selling books, and I feel that there’s something wrong with my writing that readers avoid it. This is contradictory with the first reason — if people aren’t buying my books, how do they know that they’re bad? My mind is not listening to reason, however.
Third, but just as important, is that I am not finding flow in my writing lately. I’m working on a novella based in the Hidden in Plain Sight universe, and it is bogging down before it’s even started because of my nagging feeling that I have not structured it right. The other, the latest Kringle book, is likewise bogging down because of structural issues. I’m using an outline but still struggling with this.
Part of this is that none of my ideas have captured my imagination. They all feel like contractual obligations, like that album the band had to make because the record company wanted them to.
Thus, I have fallen out of the habit of writing except for this blog. I write it every day, at this point for 170 days running. Maybe this is a good thing because I have a challenging spring semester with one of my classes. Maybe this helps me in the seed-starting season (we’re going to have a garden this year if it kills us, and that’s my responsibility).
I could give up writing — I have enough books to edit and release that I’ll be releasing books yearly for the next three years. I have written sufficient books to call myself an author. I would never have to release another book other than the ones I have already written. But I miss the flow of writing, something that helped my well-being and which defined me.
I need some reassurance, some encouragement, some breakthroughs in plotting or an idea that excites me. I need one of those factors to budge so I get motivated to write.
A sure sign that I don’t like where a book is going — I lay out the bones of another book.
I just made a sketchy outline of the next Kringle book, which I traditionally don’t start working on until November. Oh, wait, it’s only three weeks until November! This is about the time I start laying out the next book!
Traditionally, I write my books during NaNoWriMo, the international writing movement which takes place during November. I will write in November, but I will not be using NaNo’s infrastructure, due to the controversy around its support of AI for writing. I will have to find other motivational tools. Maybe Written? Kitten! or Pacemaker. Or maybe I’ve outgrown the need for the graphs and awards of NaNo.
I’m also working on the playlist. I make a new playlist for each novel I write, not necessarily to listen to while writing, but to get the feel for the novel in my head. This year’s, for some reason, is tending toward bossa nova, even though it’s set in one of my favorite places on Earth — the alternate version of Starved Rock. There’s a lot of bossa nova Christmas music out there, by the way.
But it’s time to work on prepping the Christmas novel, at any rate.
My local library is going to have an Author Fair this weekend, and I will be there. In fact, I will read an excerpt from one of the Kringle romances; I still haven’t figured out which. I’m tempted to read from It Takes Two to Kringle. In this scene, a beleaguered junior faculty member discovers that the attractive man who treated her to coffee is a Christmas fanatic who will create extra tasks for her. I’m going to have to figure this out by Saturday morning.
Author fairs are unnerving. I have never sold over three books at an author fair, because I’m an indie writer and my novels are quirky. My male leads are college professors, professional Santas, and pacifist warriors. My female leads are college professors, accountants, and former labor organizers. The immortals are not elves or angels, although they’ve been mistaken for both.
So I sit there and watch people walk by, and sometimes they stop and peruse. Sometimes I get to answer questions, and I feel like anyone could answer these questions better than me. But despite my impostor syndrome, I enjoy getting questions. I just wish I was more articulate on the “summarize the plot” questions.
In a trance last night, my mind told me to live as if I’ve already been published. That’s an interesting concept. My rational self wonders what it really means, though. There are ways in which I can’t live as if I’ve already been published. For example, I can’t show off my writing to my friends. I can’t plan a book publishing party or a book tour. I can’t try to sell the nonexistent book at writers’ or readers’ conferences. So what does living as if I’ve already been published mean? I can take the pressure off myself; I don’t have to prove anything. I don’t have to believe myself inferior to those authors who have published books. Technically, I am an author, having published a few professional articles in my field, one opinion piece in the local newspaper, several personal essays for progressive religion publications, one short story and one flash fiction. So I can call myself an author even if I haven’t published a book. I don’t have to prove anything. I’m already published. I’ll keep trying to publish a book, but I don’t have to anymore. I’ve accomplished my original goal.
Words Like Me 