Good morning, Readers!

So, discussions I've been having this week have gotten me thinking a lot about success versus luck.  Most specifically, I have gotten the impression that an awful lot of people think that a writer's success is actually luck and has nothing to do with hard work.

Of course I disagree.

There is an awful lot that goes on which people looking from the outside simply do not see.  Even if an author's work takes off and gains its own momentum, there was an awful lot of pushing uphill that permitted that particular ball to start its roll.

Yes, certainly an element of luck seems to come into play.  More often than not however, if we really think about it, that luck is actually just the author's talent; their ability to convey some mysterious quality in their writing that readers latch onto and become excited about.  Still, no one would have any inkling of that talent if the author did not put in the work to sit at a computer/typewriter/note pad and slog through the tough writing days, the hours of writers block, the hours upon hours of editing, the heartbreak of rejection, the silent tears in the night inspired by self doubt, by exhaustion, and fear.  People don't see the unpaid toil that is writing a book and ensuring that it sees the light of day in the best possible iteration.  They only see that the book has touched a nerve and become popular.  What luck for the author!

Success, even for the 'lucky' ones is the result of hard, hard work.

Does that mean that everyone who works hard will be successful?  Well... no.

Look at me, for example.

I have been writing seriously since I graduated university in 2007.  My first ever self-published book came out in 2010, and was rereleased in 2011 (small plug: it was The Dying God & Other Stories).  Since then I've come out with a book a year.

Am I able to make a living from my writing?  Nope.  One giant, fat nope.  And it's not for lack of trying, let me tell you.  In fact, I have spent more money than I've earned trying to get this writing dream off the ground; so much so that I'm hunting for a second job to support it.  Tables at conventions cost money.  Getting stock to sell at said conventions costs money.  Getting people to do book covers (because I am genuinely unable) costs money... It's money well spent, mind you.

It's all money well spent.

But I'm not earning a living from my writing.

By all counts, that makes me, and this venture, a complete and utter failure.

And I'm totally okay with that.

I don't have many readers, and that's okay.  The readers I do have are all, without exception, wonderful people.  Some of them started out as friends and are now also readers.  Some of them started out as readers and are now also friends.  They have been the most wonderful support network anyone could ever ask for.

Though I work really hard at it, marketing is just not my strong suit.  I'm not good at it.  As a result I am, after seven years of writing and four years of publishing, one giant unknown.  It's frustrating.  It's heartbreaking.  There are times I lock myself in the washroom and cry because of it.  Never mind the tears that happen because of rejection by publishing houses.  There are a lot of those.

Yeah.... I cry a lot.

I have heard arguments along the lines of 'Well, you chose to be a writer.'  Yes.  Yes I did.  I chose it in as much as a people with a passion for numbers chose to be accountants or mathematicians.  I chose it in as much as people who crave knowledge of the ocean chose to be marine biologists.  I chose writing the way a child obsessed with the heavens chooses to become an astronomer.

Am I somehow less worthy of being paid because my passion is creative?

No.  Yet people often treat me, and fellow writers, artists and musicians as if that is the case.  How dare we seek to earn a living from a creative passion?  Some demand our hard work for free with the promise of 'exposure,' and if we get successful, people throw into question our hard work.  They call it luck.

There are some days when I find myself begging for the 'luck' other authors have received.  Only, once I've calmed down, I know that they never had the kind of luck I'm hoping for.  They succeeded because they deserved to, because they showed up every day and did what needed to be done.

What I'm doing now looks an awful lot like failure.  I cannot see it like that.  What I am seeing is the things people looking in from the outside do not see.  I am seeing (and experiencing) all the work that goes into success.  And one day, I can stop pushing that ball uphill.  One day, that ball will start to roll all on its own.

And I will stand on the top of the hill, and the people who do not know, who cannot know, or who refuse to know will all stare and say, 'What luck!'

But I will know better.

Ciao!

Good morning, Readers!

Alright, so I'm about to wade into some pretty heavy stuff regarding the complicated author-reader relationship.  And I'm going to do so in a way that will probably irritate readers no end, because I am firmly on the side of authors when it comes to this issue.

I suppose I am, therefore, quite lucky I'm an unknown at this juncture.  If I was better known, I'm sure I would garner a great deal of vitriol from readers who feel entitled; entitled to an author's time, entitled to an author's story, entitled to an author's most polite consideration (no matter how poorly the reader is behaving) ... or god help that author.  Their name and works will be slathered all over the internet in the least flattering light possible with the potential of ruining their careers.

Readers, I love you, but you are not entitled to any of it.

I've already discussed the issue of readers feeling entitled to an author's story in another blog post.  I think I will find it and post it as this month's Throwback Thursday, because it is well worth mentioning again.

Anyway, before I begin, I want you all to know that I am also a reader.  All writers are.  Or at least, they should be.  The difference here, I suppose, is that I've always been grateful to authors.

Reading was how I survived most of my young life.  People were awful.  My family was slowly falling apart.  I felt so alone, and so unloved, and so desperate.  Reading gave me a way to escape the fear, and the anger, and the pain.  It gave me the role models that my world was lacking.  It gave me insight into how to cope with all the hurt.  Reading taught me about the best in humanity at a time when I could only see the worst.

I am alive today because of books.

And I am so, so, so grateful that those books existed.  I am so grateful to the authors of those books for shining their light into my very dark world.

Perhaps it's because I am coming from a place of such deep gratitude that I feel very differently about the author-reader relationship.

Becoming an author has not changed how I feel about this relationship.  It has only served to confirm those feelings.  And those feelings are thus:

Readers, I love you, but you are not entitled to an author's time, an author's story, or an author's polite consideration.  You're not.  You're just not.

Let's examine the case of Chelsea Cain.  I am specifically rebutting this article, as it smacks of the entitlement that the author is trying chastise Ms. Cain for.

The issue is this, Ms. Cain took to social media to inform some readers in no uncertain terms that she was not their personal lackey, that Google is a thing that exists that readers can use, and that pestering her with inane questions where answers can easily be found elsewhere is inconsiderate and a waste of everyone's time.  This is the offending post:

Could this particular post do without the expletive?  Yes, I suppose.  But I swear so damned much that I'm really not affronted by a single appearance of any variant of the word 'fuck.'  And, to be sure, she's right.  Ms. Cain is an author, not your personal customer service representative.  If you are a fan of her work, wouldn't you rather she spend her time writing her next novel for you to enjoy, instead of reading inane questions the answers to which can literally be found by lifting one's own fingers?

Or shall you bombard her with these inane questions and then scream from the top of your lungs when it takes her a really long time to finish her next book?  Even though, you, and others like you, who feel entitled to ask this author all these silly questions, are the reason she is taking so damned long to finish her next book.

And yes, as the author of the article I'm referencing said themselves that she was right, though her delivery of this fact could have been worded better.  The author of the article still chastised Ms. Cain, noting that she did not have to reply to any of the inane questions.

No.  She needn't reply to these questions.  And I'll stake money on the fact that she didn't.  But even reading these questions, having to sift through this rubbish in order to find and respond to readers who do ask the good questions, the readers who deserve an answer takes a lot of time.  It's time consuming.  It's time better spent elsewhere.

An author's work is to write.  That's not all, these days.  Now, it's also to reach out to fans; plan and organise launches, tours and appearances.  It's being on social media, and answering letters, and selling yourself as if your work wasn't enough, when your work really ought to be enough.

What really, really, really ground my gears, though, was this particular gem of a quote from the article:

Fuck. Off.

Fuck right off.  And I'm saying this as a reader.

The privilege here belongs not to the author, but to the reader.  It is they who are privileged to be able to fall into a world of someone else's creation, a world that they love, a world which makes their lives that much richer.  It is they who are able to benefit from the extremely hard work of the author of the book they are currently privileged enough to be reading.

Writing a book, getting it out into the world, building a readership, planning, and making appearances, touring etc, is hard work.  It's exhausting work.  For most authors it is doubly so because they tend to be introverted, and any social engagement for an introvert is sometimes a monumental task.  Being a widely read author is a culmination of many, many years of often fruitless effort and no small amount of tears.  The fact that the author is widely read now is a testament not nearly so much to talent as it is to dedication and work ethic.

That is the very opposite of privilege.

Further, Ms. Cain works really hard for her readership.  She's dedicated time and effort to reach out to those who ask her (good) questions.  Not a lot of authors do that, and her readership is really fucking lucky that she does.  I admire her so much for this as I once had an author whose work I greatly admired write me back after I sent him a letter.  It made me deliriously happy.  For about a week, I was floating around with a dumb-arse grin on my face.  In fact, it made me feel so good that I credit that reply with my desire to be an author that reaches out her readership as much as possible.

I was incredibly fucking privileged to get a letter from my favourite author.  And Ms. Cain's readers are incredibly fucking privileged to follow an author who cares so damned much about them.

In short, it is not the author who is behaving like an entitled brat.

The publisher thought it best that Ms. Cain take down the offending post - which she did.  The author of the article noted that perhaps it was because they found the post rude and misplaced.  That's quite a leap in logic.  She was asked to take down the post after the idiotic backlash that followed, not before.  Further, they did not ask her to submit an apology for it.  From this, it would be far more logical to surmise that, despite them finding nothing wrong with the post, they asked her to remove it to avoid dealing with the idiotic reader backlash.

And it is an idiotic backlash because, readers, you are not entitled to an author's time.  You're just not.

The author of this article, however, is not satisfied with trying to crucify Ms. Cain for something he admits was justified.  No, he must also attack her for expressing her frustration when the high hopes she had for her latest release were not realised.   Despite having the best of everything, and despite her working her arse off, her latest release did not make the New York Times Bestseller List.

I'm not sure why this is even an issue.  Disappointment is a perfectly reasonable thing to feel when you think you have gold and it doesn't reach its potential as expected.  Frustration is absolutely justified when something you've worked so hard for fails to meet expectations.

The author of the article felt that this "entitled", "privileged" author was blaming her readership for the failure.  This is the post that brought him to his bizarre conclusion:

Umm.... alright?

So the blaming is where, precisely?  Because what I see is an exhausted author who put her heart and soul into a release expressing her disappointment that it didn't do as well as other books she has released.  She really thought she had gold with this one.  She's upset.  She's tired.  She just wants to write.

Why is this a point of contention?

Well, the fact of the matter is that it's not.  There is no contention here.  People are looking for demons where there are only shadows.

The author of the article then had the gall to give Ms. Cain this simple piece of advice:

Nice plug there, dude.  Was this whole article sparking outrage about nothing even remotely deserving of it just one giant advertisement for your services?

I kind of want to punch her right now.

Because of course, simply hiring someone to help you with your workload is the simplest, easiest thing to do.  As we all know, authors are simply rolling in money, laughing maniacally from our towers made of illegally obtained ivory and gold that we can all afford such assistants, with money left over to buy our butlers something nice for Christmas.

In case you didn't catch the sarcasm, we're not.  Unless you're an established big name, you're left out in the cold.  Mid-list authors must pay their own way the majority of the time.  Set up and interview with a television station in the next city over?  That's on you.  You pay your own hotel, your own petrol, your own everything.  The idea that publishers take care of all this for you is a giant fucking farce.  Going on a book tour?  Hope you can afford the plane ticket, bee-otch!

Writers are generally quite poor (most of us work another job in addition to writing, just to keep a roof over our heads) and quite stretched for time, which makes Ms. Cain's desire to personally reach out to her fans all the more impressive.

Before I became a writer, I never once assumed that being a writer was easy, that being a writer was a position of privilege, that writers should be so damned grateful that anyone cares about their work that they ought to give up any hope for the basic respects all human beings ought to expect.  Now that I am a writer, I know it's not easy.  I know that it is not a position of privilege, and while I am grateful for the incredibly supportive community I have currently surrounding me, I know that I am still worthy of basic respect, and I intend to enforce that throughout my career.

Don't come crying to me about 'privileged' writers.  All I will do is hold up a mirror so that you will know the true face of entitlement.

Well, that was far longer than I had planned.  I have to go write a story now.

Ciao!

(Editied, as I was informed that Tez Miller was, in fact, of the feminine persuasion.  Oops!  Thanks, Naomi for pointing that out!)

Good morning, Readers!

Surprisingly, based on the title of this post, this is not a political rant about the dwindling funds for education, nor is it a rant against the state of education in general.  It's all about me, and how I didn't do my homework...

Again.

No, I didn't make up my word count last night like I wanted to.  In my defence, it's because I got home and promptly fell asleep for a couple of hours.  Then I woke up, completely brain dead, because my body demanded food.  So I fed it, fluffed around on the internet for a bit, then went back to bed.

I was tired, apparently.

The problem with that two hour nap was that it made it impossible for me to get to sleep until quite late last night (well, that and I got a random call from Carbondale, IL.  Which I didn't answer.  I didn't recognise that number and, unless I have it in my contacts or the caller ID is something exciting (fingers crossed for a publisher!), I don't ever pick up.  Also, no offence Carbondale, but that's a horrific name for a town.  I digress).  So, of course, I'm brain dead this morning as well.

Not literally, obviously, or I would be typing this post.  You'll forgive a little hyperbole, won't you?

In any case, my brain started working a mile a minute, and I'm pretty sure I wrote an entire brand new novel in my head last night, but I only vaguely remembered it this morning.  Something about a girl and lots of fighting and dying.  Or something (Of course there was lots of fighting and dying.  It is my speciality, it seems).

Needless to say, I'm really very tired this morning.  I'm not sure I'll get much writing done today because my brain feels so numb and I feel so tired.  I don't understand.  Why do I feel so tired?  I eat enough.  I exercise a fair amount (less so now as training is on hiatus) and I sleep regularly more than seven hours a night.  It makes zero sense.  Maybe I'm one of those freaks that needs nine or more hours sleep a night?

Alright, new pact with myself; bed no later than 10:30pm.

I've always been this way.  I could never stay up late, not even in my teens and early twenties.  When people like me were supposed to be going out and having fun and things (I believe it's called "partying") I was in bed.  This is why I made so few friends!  Seriously though, I'm so boring you have no idea.

That's what happens when most of your life is lived inside your head, I suppose.

Le sigh.

So, today I am going to attempt to break the three thousand mark.  Then tomorrow I'll only have to write two thousand to make my weekly goal.  I can do it!

Ciao!

Good morning, Readers!

Well, I have to say that I'm very disappointed in myself.  I didn't do very well writing yesterday, getting just over a thousand words down before the day was over.  While I can claim a defence that the phone technician was in all day yesterday making noise and moving around and forcing my chair into weird angles so he can put in a data port or whatever the hell he was doing yesterday.

It's not his fault, honestly.  He was supposed to be there, doing those things.  If those things don't get done, none of the technology will work when we finally move the office around and have the landlords begin construction to physically downsize the place.

It's not his fault that I found myself too distracted and thus completely unable to write until the end of the day, at which point it was too late.  Still...

I had promised myself that I would make up the word count in the evening when I got home.  Alas, that did not happen.  I got distracted by really frikkin' interesting articles that I am going to call "research."  I regret not writing last night.

My brain today feels fuzzy and wrong.  I was intending to go for a run this evening after work, but I might opt for an early night instead.  I feel like I need more sleep.  Sleep is important.

If I'm very, very lucky, I might find myself in a writing blitz today and make up the extra two thousand words, plus write the three thousand I need to meet today's target.  It's not likely to happen, no matter how many cups of coffee I drink.

Still, I am determined to make my goal today at least.  Maybe if I feel up for it, I'll try and write more this evening.  The emphasis here is on the word "try."  So, in that spirit...

And since I'm so clearly in an octopus frame of mind, watch this for your enjoyment:

Ciao!

Good morning, Readers!

I woke up this morning with gritty eyes and feeling totally exhausted, both sure signs that I did not get enough sleep last night.  There is a good reason for that.

I was up late editing the YouTube video I had promised you all yesterday.  I was up late editing the YouTube video because I had forgotten all about it until about 11:30 at night.  I was all showered and prepared for sleep when the realisation hit me.  So, I got back up and did what I promised I would do.

This is the resulting video.  Don't judge me, I was tired.

I really need to come up with a graphic for the thumbnail of my reading videos.  Sigh.

As a total aside, I love how I'm finally able to embed YouTube videos on my blog!  My other site wouldn't let me, which is one of the major reasons I switched over.

In any case, it's up and available for you to listen to.  I was really nervous, even though there were only three other people there and one of them was my mother.  I almost cried at the end of my reading, and I did tear up earlier during the reading of our night's writing challenge.  Because nerves.  Sigh.  Yup, Thirty-years-old and I still cry in public.

I'm going to go die quietly of embarrassment over here.

In other news, writing went really well yesterday.  While I didn't quite hit my 3 000 word goal, I did manage quite close to that (2 433) and am not too shy to say that I'm proud of myself.  Human just might get finished this year after all.  I'm aiming for a similar experience today.

On that note, I must go and write.

Ciao!

Good morning, Readers!

Last week's return to work felt pretty odd.  I did not feel particularly jet lagged (though my brain was very firmly lodged somewhere up in the clouds still).  Nor did it feel like I was actually back at work.  It was still a pretty great work week.  This is largely because it was all of two days.

I woke up and got to work a little early.  With my key having been given to the temp, I couldn't get in so I headed downstairs for breakfast.  I worked all day... and by worked, I mean I caught up on a lot of stuff I meant to do while I was away.  That afternoon, I was handed a pay cheque, because I get paid in the middle and end of every month.  Nice.

Friday was spent in yet another haze, still catching up on everything I missed.  There was a lot of work to be done.

Things have calmed now, though, and I should be back to my regular schedule of attempting to write this story that I despise (for no good reason, truth be told), and preparing The Winter Wolf for publication.  All that remains on that front, incidentally, is to have the cover finished and paid for.  Fingers crossed that happens soon so I can get it all done and ready to be before Can-Con this year.

Speaking of Can-Con, I am yet to pay for my table.  I received an email before I left for Australia about it, but for some reason, I cannot find that email.  It's driving me nuts!  So, I have emailed the organisation again and hopefully I'll have it all sorted by the end of this week.  Then I can stop stressing about Can-Con.  And, if the book cover is done, I can stop stressing about finishing that.

Then all I'll be left to stress over will be the acquisition of enough stock to see me through Can-Con and the book launch; a book launch I still have to organise.  Luckily, that's not happening 'till the end of October, so I have a little bit of time.  It's really the purchasing of books to sell that's a problem.  Sigh.  One day, it won't be a problem!

Also, I did a reading for my mother's writing group in Australia while I was there.  I will edit that tonight and have it up and ready for you all tomorrow.  It's just a short reading; three odd pages or something.  I get very nervous reading in front of strangers and you'll probably be able to hear me fighting tears by the end of the very short reading I did.

Yup.

I'm special.

Alright, I've spent too much time typing this.  I have to get back to writing.  After so long away, it's going to be a bit of a struggle.  Oh well!

Ciao!