I stopped caring... again

I recently started caring, and not in a good way. Don't get me wrong I care about a lot of important things: climate change, the state of the world, the health and well being of those I care about. As for myself, or rather, what others think of me, I've always tried not to care about that. I guess to some degree I did when I was younger. Teenage angst aside though , as an adult I've lived pretty well without requiring the fuel of outsider approval, because after all it's like sugar, gives you a boost of energy but nothing else.

Back to the point, I recently started taking my writing more seriously, meaning that I'm not just writing stories and blogging them, I'm entering competitions, applying for magazines and trying to get an audience. I decided to play the game for a while, I've even got Twitter. Unfortunately as a byproduct of this shameless self promotion, I've started out care about what other people think of my writing. I feel ashamed just writing this but I even went through my blog and deleted entries which I thought to be nonsense or crap.

A few days ago I added a blog entry when I was sitting out in the cold with a fever, and I was somewhat delirious. I probably revealed a tad too much about what I was thinking or feeling due to a reduced inhibition I tend to get when I'm ill. Despite the grammatical error in my Tweet that accompanied the post, I'm glad I took the time to write it. I hashed out some feelings I'd been having, and it had a very negative inclination.

I guess you could say this is the yang to that yin. The reason for my negativity because I threw myself into a deep pool of research on novel writing, marketing and publishing. I read posts and articles about paying editors, paying proof readers, paying writers, all to get said novel to a publisher and make it marketable. I read about publishing strategy, for example: how to get enough people to buy it in the release week so that it doesn't flop.

The information completely overwhelmed me. I didn't sign up for this. So much so that I started thinking about how my novel looks compared to bestsellers that are currently published. I started comparing my work to others, which was a mistake. My novel doesn't follow the same protocols and rules as others sometimes do. Sure there's a protagonist and an antagonist, but the truth is, I don't think it is marketable.

Yesterday I started to feel a little better, recovering from this infection that is. I went for a wander and began questioning what I wanted from this, and why I started writing. To be honest, of course I wanted the novel to sell, but let's face it, as a first time novelist it's unlikely. As great as it would be to be able to instantly become one of the 5% of writers who make a living out of writing, I doubt that will happen. I've proved to myself that I can write 15k words a week now, so if it came to it, I know I could write full time, that is, if I figured out how to create food out of thin air.

That doesn't mean I'm giving up. Far from it. I've just stopped caring again, which is an overwhelming relief. It has given me a renewed sense of vigor and it means I will write again without looking in the mirror that is my readers' eyes. When I started writing I didn't care what the readers thought of my writing, sorry readers, I didn't. It was gruesome, somewhat disturbing and peppered with dark truths, but it was my creation. I'm not going to spoil what I've spent so long creating, just to try and sell a few more copies. I'd rather be a cult classic than a bestseller.

So I'll finish it this week. I'll likely take some time away from it while I write my Channillo series, then edit it later this year, and try to get it published. In the mean time I'll try to resurrect my old blog posts, or at least have a rant more often. If you read my material and still like it, bless you. I like you already.

Thanks for reading.