I love writing. There is really nothing that can compare to the unrestrained joy that comes with creating something that wasn’t there before. I suppose this is a feeling shared by many creatives. From artists, to musicians, to actors; all are doing something that no one has done before, for better or worse. Usually for the worse, but if a hundred bad paragraphs yield something worth keeping, then it was all worth it. Because you can tweak the formula and improve. Practice makes talent and talent is not lacking in the world. Talent is all around us, like a whisper that we can’t quite make out. We have to grab onto those whispers and seize the moment, or risk letting it all fade away to brittle dust. Far too many folks allow societal or perhaps familial expectations to restrain them. There is little money in the arts. Little to none. I don’t recommend giving up one’s career for this sort of stuff. But make time for it. Create. Leave a legacy beyond your immediate vicinity, because if you don’t put in an effort, then that’s it. You’re done. Dust and bones. Literary immortality, or at least extreme longevity, is certainly achievable. Aside from that, though, it’s fun. Even if hardly anyone reads your work, watches your shows, or buys your paintings; the process is what satisfies. Your skills will grow, not just in your specific talent, but in other aspects of your life as well. You will grow as a person, and this is not romantic hyperbole. So I think writing is truly wonderful. A lot of the appeal as well is the freedom of it all.
Growing up, I tried out many sports and activities. Hockey, ball hockey, soccer, fencing, martial arts, gymnastics. There’s more, but I won’t list them all. The point is that I could never attach myself to these things. People would get so excited over the potential outcome of a hockey game. They would scream and cry and leap from their chairs. I could never understand the energy that people would devote to something so constrained. There was one sport I loved, though. Maybe it’s an activity, but I think of it as a sport. Skiing. It’s sort of viewed as an elitist sport in many parts of the world, especially in the United States. Perhaps that’s justified; ticket and equipment prices are outrageously high, even more so outside of Canada. Regardless, it’s just what I’ve latched on to. I’ve been skiing since I was four years old, and I’ve almost mastered it. Save for heli-skiing, which I will probably never try, I can ski just about anything. Why do I love it so much when I have such a lack of interest in other sports?
Some may say it’s because skiing is not a particularly physically demanding activity. After all, you will probably see all sorts of people on the hill. All sorts of shapes and sizes. The only thing you need to ski a green run is some balance and decent knees. I doubt that’s the primary reason, at least in my case. First of all, I prefer the more difficult blacks and double black diamonds. They aren’t exactly easy on the body, but I will admit that even those are not as exhausting as, say, basketball. But I think it is the freedom of it all. being out in the mountains, the fresh air blowing on my face. Seeing those views and choosing where to go next. Every other sport is just so contained. You’re stuck in an arena or court, and there’s not much you can do except do your best to follow the rules and score another point. Again and again, just repeating the same stuff with slight variations. I get it, there’s different plays and things. Yet there’s no freedom. You’re stuck in there with rules. There’s not any rules to skiing, aside from the alpine code of conduct, which I don’t really remember very well. It’s just common sense. The reason I bring up this whole skiing anecdote is because it illustrates my constant desire for freedom with whatever I do. From sports to writing, that’s just who I am. I wonder if other creatives are like this. Probably not; almost everyone enjoys at least some type of organized sport. That’s fine, I suppose.
All of this brings me to the title of this brief article: I am now one of the many historical fiction authors in the world, and I feel shame. Not because of the genre, but because of something else. So, you may ask, what is this something else that you mentioned?
Well, I can’t speak for other authors, but all I can say is that becoming a “self-published indie author” has given me an array of mixed emotions. On the one hand, I am quite happy with myself for actually finishing what I started. There were plenty of occasions when it seemed like I would never actually get The Malignancy to a place where people might enjoy and comprehend it. Conversely, the whole marketing thing is embarrassing. The relentless marketing is probably necessary, but it’s not in my character. It just seems so tasteless. So sleazy and pretentious. I guess you could say that I would prefer if someone would market for me. A publisher, perhaps? Of course, that can never happen because it is nearly impossible to get traditionally published. Even if I could secure a deal, I’m not even sure that I would want to. I barely make enough royalties as a self-published author; publishing houses take a notoriously high percentage and Kindle Direct Publishing positions itself, quite rightly, as a more author-friendly alternative. I could try to hire a marketing agency, but I don’t have enough money for such an expensive investment. There’s always business loans, but debt is not something I want at such a young age. That just leaves crowd-funding. I don’t know a lot about crowd funding, but I am looking into it. That actually might be an option for me if my current marketing proves insufficient.
Crowdfunding requires self-marketing, though. Just like what I am doing now on social media and even here on this blog. It’s shameful for me. Embarrassing. I’d rather not do it, but I want people to read my book. It’s not even for the money. I just want people to try to appreciate my thousands of hours of hard work. In order to continue, I need enough money to market my book enough so that I can sell enough copies so it can survive through word of mouth. Otherwise, The Malignancy will soon become just another one of many so-called dead books and that audience that I want will never materialize. I won’t lie though, I do want to make some money too. There’s no expectation to become rich, but a steady and passive income is certainly a motivating factor here. So in order to gain that audience and passive income, I need to sell more books. In order to sell more books, I have to be shameless. Shameless marketing, just like a car salesman. That’s what I feel like sometimes—a car salesman. I know a car salesman, though. He’s a family friend. Nice guy, but I’m pretty sure he rips people off just like every other car salesman. Is that what I am doing? Ripping people off? I mean, I think it’s a good book. Does everyone else? Perhaps this feeling of shame will fade once some reviews roll in. I sure hope so.
Thanks for reading!
Liam
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