Being an author is like being in charge of your own personal insane asylum.

- Graycie Harmon

Thursday, October 20, 2011


They're there. They're terrible. They hold you back, hold you down, knock you out.


I have them all the time. I might seem confident, and I am, but doubts still plague me. They break me down. Sometimes, something happens that's so severe, I have a mini-meltdown. I cry, I scream into my pillow, I cry more.

I'll never make it.

I'm not good enough.

No one will ever read it.

It's crap.

I'm crap.

Sound familiar? Yeah.

Regular readers of this blog will know the emotional roller-coaster that is trying to get published (never mind the frustrating work we do before we even consider submitting for publication). At least for me.

One moment I'm bubbling over with delighted anticipation. The next, I'm buried in my blankets, weeping pitifully.

I've plenty of reasons to doubt.

Compared to some bloggers, I have a teeny tiny number of readers (and who knows how many of those are regular readers). Not that it's a bad thing, necessarily. After over two years, I'm still trying to find my feet with this. Inflicting my uncertainty on fewer people has its benefits.

I've self-published but one book, and it isn't selling.

For the one series I care most about; for Julian's story, The Great Man, I've received nothing but rejections.

If ever there's a reason to doubt, the number of rejections I get would be one of them. I'm seriously thinking of self-publishing this one. It seems that it's the only way this story will see the light of day.

In fact, other than words of encouragement from friends and family (LOVE you guys), there is absolutely no reason in the world for me to believe that I'll get anywhere with this.

Except that I do.

I believe.

Without reason.

What the hell?

I don't know why I believe.

I just do.

Deep down somewhere, despite all the reasons to doubt, I believe I'll be a successful author. Somewhere inside of me speaks a voice. It speaks in gentle tones, quietly but assuredly. It is the kind of voice that can and does cut through the clamour of a thousand other voices screaming doubts. It tells me to keep going. That what happens now won't matter later. That I'll be alright. That I'll make it.

This voice, this quiet, soulful voice, has pulled me back from the brink of despair more times than I can count. It simply says this:

I will make it.

I will make it.

I will make it.

And so will you.


A little villa; a little village.
- Edward Lloyd's Encyclopaedic Dictionary, 1895

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