August 21, 2011

Self doubt with a side of frappuccino, please!

I'm starting to think writing, or at least the attempt at being a serious writer, makes me emotional.

Case in point: today, we decided to take Zoe to Barnes & Noble (or, Barnes and Oble, depending on to whom you're speaking) for a weekend-ending treat. It's her favorite field trip, and once we got past the Great Pie and Tic Tac Incidents of Friday, she tried really hard to be good all weekend long.

But the problem is...when I go into Barnes & Noble, or any book store these days, I don't look around and see all the super-cool books I'd love to read if only I had a little more reading bandwidth. Instead, I see the Big Fat Lack of My Book.

And it's HUGE, the BFLMB! It's gaping! I mean, I see all the shelves where it could be. There's the generic Sci-Fi/Fantasy section, where I guess I'd really like it to be. There's the Young Adult section, to where my skill-level maybe pushes me. And there's even the Teen Paranormal Romance section! What the *&^% is that? And I know my book could eventually fit into any one of them, depending on how the next two months of writing and several months of editing go.

But then I look around even at those sections and sub-sections, and I think...man, even if by some miracle I do manage to sell this thing, SO WHAT, right? Seriously, it looks like everyone and their mother has sold a book by now; my book will be swallowed up on the shelves of whichever section accepts it. It will be so sad and lonely there, just one little Leah Rhyne surrounded by numerous books by all the other real authors. It's a lot of pressure, when you get right down to it. Not only do I need to finish and sell this book, but I need to do it again and again and again if I want to get anywhere!

And then I wonder...where the hell IS anywhere, anyway? Right? Do I ever expect to be famous for writing zombie novels?

So...I do have an answer to that, and I'll share it here and now, for once and for all. I know I won't make a fortune, I know I'm not J.K. Rowling or Stephen King or even the chick who wrote the original True Blood series. But what I would love, secretly and publicly really really love, is to sell enough books of my random little zombie story that next year or maybe the year after, I'll be invited to Comic Con. I don't care which one, I just want to go. Once. And sign some of my books for the three fans who would show up. And people-watch for days on end. And maybe meet some real writers and artists and actors who can teach me a thing or three.

So there you have it. I'm insecure, still can't call myself a writer without blushing, find book stores overwhelming, and I want to go to Comic Con. Hope to see you there someday!

1 comment:

Jen said...

I love your Comic Con aspiration because it's so much more specific than just "make a fortune" or "be a famous writer." It's something you can actually picture in your mind.

Also: when I was in high school I used to look for where my books would be in the poetry section. You know where? Really near Charles Bukowski. And I HATED that his last name was so similar to mine ;)

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