I’m having trouble caring anymore. About being published, I mean. Really published. Because yes, my first novel is out there, but I did it myself.
I’m just going to go ahead and say it: self-publishing felt like giving up.
It did not feel fun. It did not feel victorious. It did not feel exciting, although I’m pretty sure I described myself as “excited” about a million times when I announced The Clearing‘s publication.
I’ve had an agent for over two years now. Granted, we’ve only submitted the one book so far, but the novelty of saying things like “Hang on, I’ve got to answer this call, it’s my agent,” has officially worn off.
Yes, I will eventually get Synthesis edited and send it back to aforementioned agent, and eventually we will submit it to editors. My problem now is that I’m not sure I care what those editors think.
It’s good in some ways, I guess. Maybe the rejection will sting less. But then, shouldn’t it sting? If it stops stinging, does that mean I’ve lost my motivation?
I don’t know.
Maybe it’s because the past week was emotionally difficult for a variety of reasons. (I won’t go into those reasons here because they are way too personal, but if you’re privy to our family blog, I’m sure I’ll write about it there sometime this week.)
(If you’re not privy, I apologize for making you aware of your un-privyness. Or whatever.)
(Thank you, red squiggly line, for letting me know that “un-privyness” is not a word. I HAD NO IDEA.)
I’ve been in ruts like this before, but never this bad. What do you do when you lose the passion for writing? When you lose the motivation to achieve the dream you’ve had for so long? Please tell me, because I’ve got a novel that needs revising and I just. can’t. do it.