If I didn’t have my part-time job and my tiny benefits after forty years of working-class life, I’d be a starving artist. There are days like today when I feel like a starving artist. I write because I feel I must. I created my business with cockeyed optimism like all the women in my family who followed their dreams.
Yet, on occasion, I do wonder if I’m just a stubborn mule and haven’t faced the realities of this business of writing. I don’t have a big publishing firm to support me or come from a family of writers. I do have a community of writers who understand the burdens of writing. They gather together under the umbrella of the Alliance of Independent Authors.
I recently joined ALLi and have already learned so much from them. Their advice has been invaluable. I don’t plan to dissolve my business or stop writing anytime soon. I can be stubborn sometimes. Even though I cringe when rejected, a tiny part of me with fists raised wants to fight back. My cockeyed optimism convinces me I will find my readers one day. In an older post I wrote about finding my audience. I’m still a cockeyed optimist convinced I’ll find them. My problem, like all those who create is being able to sell myself.
I wrote earlier that I’m uncomfortable selling my books. It STILL feels like prostitution. When I mention my books and blogs to friends and coworkers, I manage to sabotage any possibility of a sale by quickly telling them my books are adult urban fantasy, science fiction and crime dramas and they may not like those kinds of books and if they don’t like them don’t bother to purchase one. Then I make matters worse by saying, “And there’s swearing, so if you’re offended by foul language, please don’t feel you have to read them. Oh, and there’s violence and sex.”
Then there are the loud silences between posts and books and I’m wondering if I’m just a masochist and should quit before I humiliate myself beyond redemption. Then someone responds to my post and I feel hopeful once more. As an independent author, I don’t have the luxury of delegating chores to my employees or distancing myself from bad reviews. My creative endeavors are my burden.
If someone doesn’t like my book cover or the blurb I wrote on the back, I can’t let go of the criticism as easily as some writers who have been given the good housekeeping seal of approval from traditional publishers. Or maybe they too feel the burn of a cryptic criticism? And when the critic uses the social media equivalent of a Roman denunciation, in other words, a thumbs-down of disapproval which I internalize as “let her books die,” I’m wondering what I did to offend this person.
Then again, my cockeyed optimism took charge when I read an alternative to the thumbs-down definition. Early Roman gestures tended to be more complex than our current interpretation. I began to wonder if maybe my critic actually likes my advertisement. I can only guess. All I got was a golden thumbs-down emoji. Since I love Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s ambiguity, why can’t I accept this ambiguous response to my advertisement?
At such times, I long to return to the safe haven of college. At least in college, if I wrote something, I would know soon enough from at least thirty or forty critics if my short story or poem worked. Instead, I have to use my own best judgement and let my writing cool before editing my first thoughts. Even then, I can’t be sure I’ve engaged my audience. Should I have stayed with my first career choice in college, the one that seemed the safest bet?
After a twenty-year absence, I thought graphic design would be a rewarding career. One year later I knew I just didn’t have the skills or drive to become a graphic designer. Turns out I can’t draw worth a damn. My apples look like beach balls and my landscapes are one-dimensional concepts even children know are amateur. Oh, and my attempt to create emoting gigantic typography failed miserably. My letters looked as if they wanted to crawl back into the colored pencils shamed at having existed at all.
Even if I’d managed to get through the grueling critiques by my art teachers, I can never be sure I would have been a successful graphic designer. And if I’m honest, my heart was never into that part of the creative arts. At least I had the ability to get outside of myself and recognize that I was a terrible artist and should avoid, at all cost, anything to do with the visual arts. My stubborn resolve has always been to work in the field of literary arts, even if I starve.
Should I ignore the “let her die” critique? Yes. If I’d received a cogent critique, I might have had some idea of how to improve my chances with readers like her. Since the critic chose not to explain herself, I can only conclude she doesn’t like the book cover or my amateur advertisement. Maybe she doesn’t even like the Owyhee Canyonlands or the western part of Idaho? Or she might be a Never Oregonist?
I have no idea.
And that’s the rub.
She might not even be my targeted audience.
So, why do I obsess about this critique?
I’ve mentioned the axiom – get out of your own way in an earlier post. I guess I must remind myself, again, of that axiom. It’s time for me to get out of my own way and let my books speak for themselves. I sympathize with picky readers. I too am a picky reader and understand a reader’s aversion to manipulation. But I’ve learned my lesson. College taught me there are little gems in many books I once assumed were not meant for me.
Nowadays, I try to get out of my comfort zone and read books I would never have touched in the past. For example, I just finished Rick Wilson’s book Everything Trump Touches Dies. Never, ever would I have read a book by a member of the Republican Party. That’s how bad our politics have gotten. I’ve been with the Democratic Party since 1974. I voted for Jimmy Carter. I met Jimmy Carter in Oregon while attending Mount Hood Community College in Gresham, Oregon. It was like meeting a rock star. No, better than meeting a rock star. I’ve been a Democrat ever since.
Yet, I read Wilson’s book and discovered to my astonishment that he is an excellent writer. I especially enjoy his dry wit. At the same time, I learned a great deal about certain members of the Republican Party. His book was satirically illuminating. At one point though, I nearly upchucked when he wrote about Reagan in glowing prose. But what resonated with me was that I learned more about the GOP from him than I’ve ever learned from newspapers or the media.
Yes, it took a threat of a constitutional crisis for me to step out of my comfort zone and read a book I assumed would be the antithesis of my world view. But I did. And I owe this new knowledge about the Republican Party to the years I spent in college stepping out of my comfort zone to explore ideas and books I never would have known about or willingly chosen on my own.
After my first semester as an English major, having taken literature classes, I was forced to read books by authors I’d never heard of before, or writers I’d heard of and assumed I would hate. The one writer I thought for sure I’d hate was Albert Camus. He sounded so stuck-up; a writer only English professors admire. But after immersing myself in The Stranger, I came away awestruck and changed forever. I’m not claiming to be anything like Camus. I would be thrilled to have just a pinch of his genius, but I don’t. But at least I have some idea where I want to be one day.
Therefore, as a fan of Camus and a cockeyed optimist, I have chosen to accept my critic’s response to my advertisement as encouragement to continue writing. Like Camus’s philosophy of the absurd, I believe my critic has in fact given me a sign of approval, the ancient Roman equivalent that is.
This new revelation can be internalized (in my mind) as follows: Thank you, referee, for your openminded and generous thumbs-down. You may think I’m crazy, but I can assure you I’m not. This is just my coping mechanism kicking in. Auguri, signora. With great relief, I accept your approval of my advertisement as well as the book cover for The Thunderegg Speaks. Now that you have assured me my book meets with your approval, I will continue the business of writing.
Books By K McVere 