I finished my first novel twelve years ago. I have been trying to get published since then, collecting around two hundred rejections for my six novels.
My novel To The Last Drop will be published on April 21st. I certainly hope that this is the beginning of a long writing career. Everything I endured is about to be justified.
And yet, I'm unsettled. Because my publisher is so small, I've been working on promotions and scheduling book readings. Together with re-vamping my novel's website, these tasks have kept me busy. Tomorrow I'll be attending the New Mexico Filmmaker's Conference, trying to pitch the screenplay adaptation of To The Last Drop. All this is assuredly necessary, but it feels awful.
The business side of writing is new to me, and bold self-promotion isn't among my few strengths. It all seems so insincere. And it's tedious. Lord, it is tedious.
There's more to my uneasiness. It is difficult to admit, but I am nervous. I am worried that no bookstores will carry my book, I am frightened that no one will review my book, I am anxious that no one will even know that my book has been published.
This is probably a natural way to be, but it's such an alien strain of stress that sometimes I find there's nothing I can do but listen to The Who's Live At Leeds at toothache volume.
I want to be writing. I've only been able to chip away at my new novel, The Object: a love story. I need to dive into my writing and stay immersed. Eight hours of writing, six days a week ... that would cure me. But I can't right now, my published book needs me. And so I'll grind on a bit longer.
"The true conqueror is he who is not conquered by the multitude of the small." -- Chuang Tzu