Publishing stories is not for the faint at heart.
The first time I prepared for publishing one of my works, my finger hovered over the button for about an hour. I knew there would be no turning back once I clicked on the “Submit” button. My life flashed before my eyes. Cataclysmic avalanches and tsunamis thundered across the globe. My parents screamed into the phone for how I had embarrassed them. My wife left me for a more intelligent man. The pastor read my eulogy over a grave void of mourners. Worse, nothing but the sound of crickets filled my ears as the world ignored what I had to say.
That was scary for about an hour.
Then come the reviews. Phony accolades, character assassinations and blatant calls for a boycott. You have to be sure of yourself as a writer, and as a human being, in order to survive the varied opinions of the universe.
Some stories aren’t for everyone. And that’s okay. Publishing isn’t for everyone. And that’s okay, too.
For me, writing is more of a process than a result. A journey as opposed to a destination.
I enjoy the continuous learning and self-discovery. Each day I find something new buried within my brain. Almost hourly, I figure something out which was previously a mystery. This process is unique to me and only me. Others may uncover the same things in similar fashion, but their experience is nothing like mine.
And nothing will stop me from moving forward. NOBODY has the power to make me curl up and hide away. I won’t grant them that permission. Besides, for every negative opinion of your work there will be countless positives. Those are the people I write for and I will continue on my trek to the top of the mountain with them as my guides.
Now, back to the crunches so I am ready for the future gut punches. Mad Hungarians don’t go down easy. Trust me.
I’m still moshing!