It's possible there is something wrong with me.
I mean more than just my usual human deficiencies. This goes beyond my normal neuroticness (not a word, but it should be), past the fact that I leave my shoes around the house. It seems bigger than the fact that I organize things and then can never find them. According to some guy with lots of letters after his name, this is big...
I don't know how to market myself or talk myself up. I mean I suppose I know how, but I don't want to do it. I can't be that girl.
I just read an article and based on these five paragraphs, I am screwed. I'm not even posting a link to the article because there may be some of you out there going along thinking you're doing just fine. I don't want to ruin your day.
According to this article there are a million things I should be doing to reach out, expand my readership, market my book, tell people how wonderful I am. I just can't do it. The article goes on to say if I can't do this laundry list of phony baloney, I need to dig deep and find the root cause of my insecurities. I...I don't think I'm insecure. Maybe I am...no, I don't think I am. I like me. I'm fun.
I don't feel like I need to tell people. If they hang out with me or read my stuff or my book, then they'll know if they like me, want to read more of me. They can figure it out for themselves. Why do I need to "Collaborate" and Co...something else?
"Writers, even great writers, die without an audience," Mr. What's His Face says. They need to work a room, work the social network world, trend, reach out and "convince people they are lucky to know you and your product is invaluable". Christ, I just like to write and now I need a nap.
Maybe I should be doing something else, something that doesn't involve (What did he call them?) "reader metrics and performance targets". I've always been interested in plumbing. Crap, they probably have to be badass, look at me, too.
My thoughts from the laundry room. I Can't Dream with The Light On.