The source of my angst is my writing. Or, rather, what to do with my writing. Did you know that Amazon has become a kind of publisher all their own, making it possible for writers to publish their own stuff and sell it on Amazon, without going the traditional self-publishing route of paying to print 1,000 copies of your book and hoping they all sell?
Well, they have really stepped it up. The Internet is making the democratization of publishing possible, and I’m vacillating between riding that wave and sticking with making traditional publishing work for me.
The Amazon thing is mighty tempting. People could buy my book in book or eBook format, and it would have a cover and ISBN number and everything. The only drawback is, I’d have to do all the marketing. Whether my book sinks or swims is entirely dependent on how well I market it and whether or not people want to read it.
And therein lies my angst. I’m not averse to pounding the pavement, spreading the word to anyone and everyone that my book is out there. What I am averse to is my book being out there…And no one caring.
Oh, I have nightmares about that. Of being self-deluded enough to think my writing is ready to be made public only to have most people think it’s Amateur Hour. Of my book mouldering away on Amazon with no one buying it. Of having concrete, absolute proof that my writing sucks.
If my insecurities were packing peanuts, I have reason to believe I could fill a reasonably large swimming pool with them providing it wasn’t too windy outside.