I'm confused and heartbroken.
Here it is, Thursday, August 7, 2025, the back end of a much-needed hiatus from writing. What better time to do that than during the ever-humid summer months? Plus, I just published Running Through the Fire and am slowly planning my release date of Kill the Locust.
I hoped by now I'd have some schedule leading up to the February 2026 release of Kill the Locust. First off, I want to change the title; it's not working anymore. I keep telling myself I'll think of a better one when I least expect it. Then again, I thought I'd think of it when I wasn't writing. Also drawing a complete blank about how to ask for reviews and what the front cover will look like.
Over the past few years, I've wondered what life is like outside of writing. Without going into details, I don't believe I've experienced anything too different or better. No matter what, I only end up writing even more in my journal.
For at least a year, I've realized this so-called career I've had has not at all been what I thought. I didn't expect to write as many books as I have, but I was hoping, by now, I'd be a little more well known, know a thing or two about how best to market books. As a self-published author, I've had to go through a lot of trial and error to market my books. As far as I'm concerned, that trial period is long over. Nothing but errors.
Was I even meant to write?
Well, nearly 15 years later, I still have yet to answer these questions:
1. What are your writing goals?
2. Where's your following? How many followers do you have?
3. What's your platform?
I still have yet to do any of the following:
1. Go to a book signing.
2. A book reading at either a local bookstore or church. The only times I've done that are at open mics. At every one of them, the only one who's interested in it is me. In fact, that's pretty much been that way all along.
3. Go to some event and break even.
Additionally, none of the literary collaborations have materialized.
Have I done something I shouldn't have? Or was there something I should've done but didn't do?
Am I writing in the right genre?
I feel like I've messed up just another thing in life. Wrong again. And in the worst way I've ever known
In just about every conversation, no one wants me to talk about my books. If I have and even shared a buy link with you, please forgive me for imposing myself on you. I know you don't have enough time or money to invest in what I've written.
Worst of all, I've been rejected more times than I could tolerate.
Some spiritual guidance I've been chewing on this past summer: If you're doing something and always losing, do something else.
Based on what I've written in this post, I don't believe it's worth it to write anymore. It's not worth the strife and tears. But what better thing can I do in the early mornings? So many times, I've asked that, often given myself reverse psychology every time.
I'm sure before too long, it's going to be a reality.
Yet more hope. Not only did I share Running Through the Fire with Word Weavers, but I also got a 5-star review of it on Amazon.
Nonetheless, I wonder if I have the strength and intestinal fortitude to keep writing.
