There was a time, not too long ago, when I thought progress would be smooth. I thought that I just needed to get better at my craft, get published, and then I'd build a reputation, build a readership, and 'success', however we define it, would follow.
I wouldn't say I was naïve, exactly, but it's become increasingly clear to me that I didn't appreciate just how difficult the process would be. Being dropped by my publisher was a blow, but not a terminal one. I was, I thought, now free; free to take the next series to a bigger audience.
That audience has steadfastly refused to materialise.
My work, which I consider to be a step better than that I published, has been rejected by all and sundry. All the agents in the country, it seems, have turned me down and, whilst I still hold out in desperation for one of the open-submission periods I submitted to to turn around and embrace me, I can't rely on it – I can barely let myself hope, because hope can stall and shock when it all falls through. As it almost inevitably will.
So now I'm left as another also-ran. I have to ask myself the question: am I a failure?
The road to hell is paved with authors cast aside and abandoned. I, at the moment, am certainly in that position.
It's hard to see a way forwards. I have a trilogy two-thirds written and just wantin' a little love. I claw my way onwards but for what purpose?
At this point I should mention self-publishing. I don't wish to denigrate anyone who's chosen this path. It's a viable method, an excellent way forwards for many people. But I have learnt through my experience with New Gods that I'm not really cut out for it. I don't have the will or aptitude to promote myself properly – I'm content with my little bubble of a blog and its extension on Twitter. I just don't know how to do it well and I don't feel like I have the time to devote to selling.
Failure. I ask again – is that what I am? If so, what does it mean? Is it time to give up on my ambitions?
Well, the writing industry is slow, and often ability is almost irrelevant. Given that, I guess I might as well carry on. It's important to remember, he says to himself, that all careers have peaks and troughs. I've had my time when it felt like all was on an upwards trajectory; now I'm faced with fallow days.
So what do I do?
I'm not sure, I'm really not. I guess I just carry on, because what's the alternative? I have a draft to finish and I desperately want to get that done, if only for me. I know I can write. Maybe I just need to sharpen my skills at selling myself; maybe that's where I'm really falling down. Truth is, more likely, that writing is a fiercely competitive industry (though the writers I've had dealings with have been uniformly lovely) and there's a huge amount of luck required to get anywhere.
But once this novel is finished I don't really know what to do. I seem to have to choose between shelving my (excellent, thank you very much) work or self-publishing to a disinterested world.
It's not the way I saw my future, not ten years ago, not five years ago, not when I was dropped from the ranks of the published.
So is this failure? Maybe, just maybe, it is.
Nevertheless, I persist.
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