I’ve often heard that being an aspiring author is a solitary profession. Maybe you’re still learning how to write or you have a work in progress or you’re struggling to find an agent or perhaps you’re going the self-publishing route and need to learn marketing skills. Whatever the case may be, you find yourself stuck in limbo. You haven’t broken into the industry yet, but writing isn’t just a hobby for you anymore. It’s become a habit, a passion, a lifestyle. Your day doesn’t quite feel complete if you haven’t spent time honing your craft. I know that feeling full well, of course, otherwise I wouldn’t be here on my soapbox.
I knew going into this that it would be a reclusive endeavor, but I guess I just didn’t know to what extent. I’ve always been rather solitary (not necessarily by choice)—feeling like I was on the outside looking in, like I was out of place, like an outcast. I’ve always been rather misunderstood. None of these feelings are new to me, but I didn’t realize that these feelings could, in fact, deepen. I didn’t know that I could be more misunderstood than before. More alone in my pursuit. But knowing what I know now, this shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me. Without a “finished” product, very little is understood of what it is I’m trying to do. Until I transition from merely a writer to an author, no one is going to know who I am or care about what I do. That’s a hard truth that I’ve had to learn, and am still learning.
That fact is more clear to me now than ever. No one cares about what I have to say until I have a story to sell (and even then there’s no guarantee of interest). It’s been tough to reconcile that, but I think I’m finally starting to get over it. The reconciliation, however, is a cyclical process. Unfortunately for me, I keep falling for the same trap. I approach each new endeavor with optimism and enthusiasm, only to be met with disappointment when things fail to live up to expectations. For a while, I thought my mistake was setting my expectations too high, so I lowered them each subsequent time. Sure, this probably had something to do with it, but it wasn’t the root of the issue. My original mistake was setting any expectations to begin with. By doing so, I was constantly setting myself up for major letdown if things didn’t play out the way I envisioned. And boy, have things played out much differently (so far).
As I mentioned last post, I’ve been met with a steadily increasing amount of apathy and indifference. Which honestly, is a creative’s worst nightmare. We want to feel like our artistry matters. That we’re making an impact. We want feedback good or bad. We want engagement. We want to feel like our art is being seen and/or heard. Of course, I don’t write for recognition or accolades or what have you. I write because it’s good for me. I write because it’s what I do, and what I want to do. I write because I can’t not write. But still… I want a little something more. I want to be thrown the occasional bone for the effort and work I’ve put in—even if it’s something as small as a fishbone.
But this is where we begin to drift into dangerous territory. Where do I draw the line between believing that my hard work will pay off, and expecting to be rewarded for what I’ve done? When does this stop being an ideal and start looking like entitlement? I’ve said before that meritocracy is a key component of my ethos and world view. I operate under the assumption that positive energy and action gets reflected back, in turn. Your hard work and consistency will pay off. Your effort will be rewarded. While I don’t know any of this for certain, it’s what I believe and it’s what I choose to believe. I’ve learned the hard way that my optimistic outlook isn’t necessarily the most realistic, but it certainly beats the alternative, which I’ve been through before as well.
The truth of the matter is that we don’t live in a perfect world. Many things work in theory, but not in practice. More often than not, ideals are unattainable. For example, some of us strive for perfection, even with the knowledge that this is not something that we can reach. That however, will not prevent the perfectionist within from trying to reach towards flawlessness. I could write faster if I didn’t tinker/edit/nitpick/re-read as much as I do. But I just can’t help myself—sometimes my perfectionism gets in the way of my artistry. I wouldn’t want it any other way though; I take pride in my work, and as such, I hold myself to an incredibly high standard. I can’t half ass anything, or post content that I think is shoddy. My conscience won’t let me do it. There’s a baseline quality level that every artistic endeavor of mine has to reach. Maybe this is another way that I set myself up for failure. Maybe setting such a high standard contributes to making unreasonable expectations.
That’s not something I know for certain either. But I do know this: it keeps me motivated. If I wasn’t constantly striving to write to the best of my ability, I’d remain stagnant, and never get to where I needed to go. Each day I’m getting better at my craft, little by little. Each day I’m learning, improving, and growing. I don’t pretend to have all the answers, because I don’t have all the answers. Instead, I’m figuring things out as I progress further in my writing journey. Sometimes I’ll have to ask for help, sometimes I’ll have to look stuff up, sometimes I’ll have to try new things. All of this requires me to step out of my comfort zone, which of course is easier said than done.
If you know me, then you know that I’m rather reserved. I’m your textbook introvert—I don’t do well in larger crowds, I spend a lot of time alone or in my head, I’m not super active on social media, I tend to clam up in conversations with larger groups, I might come off as aloof or standoffish. It might not seem like I care, but I actually care a lot. I care more than you know. That’s partially why the indifference hurts me so much. It’s a massive step for me to even put myself out there in the first place. Which makes it that much more devastating when all I hear are crickets. But as I said earlier, I’m learning how to cope with it. People will react the way that they react. That doesn’t change my approach or my process. At the end of the day, it’s all about what I can control—my effort, energy, and consistency namely. I just have to keep doing what I’m doing. Good things will come to me eventually. I still have faith.
When it comes down to it, I am my own brand. Everything that I do artistically—my fiction, my poetry, my essays/blog posts, my social media content—goes towards it. I need to do whatever it takes to continue to build it up. I can’t afford not to. If I don’t do this for myself then who’s going to do it for me? There are so many things I’ve learned in the past three years or so about writing, mental health, life. I have a lot that I can share. A lot that I want to share. I just need the platform.
It will take time and energy for me to cultivate a following. I understand that. I also understand that at the end of the day this might not even be within my control. There’s a possibility that my dreams will never become a reality. That’s just how the math goes. It’s a harsh truth that I have to accept. But it doesn’t mean that I give up on my dream. It doesn’t mean that I put in less effort. I can’t focus on that—it’s putting the cart before the horse. I’ve done that before, worrying about the future rather than focusing on the present. I know how that story goes. It never leads to anything good, just inaction and undue stress. I need to control what I can control, and let it play out on it’s own. I don’t know the future, but I can tell you this much: if I fail it won’t be due to a lack of effort on my part. I will do everything in my power to try to get to where I want to go. If I put in the work but I still can’t get there, I can live with that—at least I tried.
That being said, it’s back to the lab for me. Back to my den of seclusion, so that I can crank out quality work. No man is an island. We weren’t meant to live in isolation, but I think that’s what’s next for me. While the pandemic may have ended a few years ago, social distancing still continued for me, in some ways. For the most part it was through circumstance rather than by choice, but perhaps it’s time for that to change. It’s time for me to go into Hermit Mode. To put my head down and get to work. To put on the blinders. To tune out the noise. Focus on the quality of my work and mastering my craft, rather than sit around waiting for a warm reception or any sort of reaction. Maybe when I pop my head out next, the reception will be warmer. Maybe it won’t. But I won’t hold my breath either way. I’m just going to keep on keeping on, and worry about that.
JHUMWRITES—A Mental Health Blog 