So, I wrote another book. I know what you’re thinking, you didn’t even know I’d written a book before let alone a book now. Well, I’m on book number three.
Book number one is just going to continue to sit there for a while because I think it’s kind of ‘eh’. But Book number two I’m a little bit in love with. I sent it in to a small publishing company for a contest. The winner will be published for free. Palmetto Publishing. The announce the winner tomorrow. I am beside myself with angst and worry and anticipation. Which is ridiculous. The chances of winning are like zilch and the runner up to zilch. I also sent it to a larger company on a whim. Well, the first 50 pages anyway. Halfway expecting that they would call me immediately to espouse about my literary genius, and offer me buckets and buckets of money. Because, if I’m in love with Book number two, then surely everyone will be in love with Book number two.
I sent it to some friends who offered to Beta Read.
Note to self, never do that again.
Not that they gave bad advice, or anything like that. But that it will never be as important to them as it is to you. Or, rather, me. Now, I don’t even know if professional Beta Readers exist, or if writers always use their friends. But the other problem with friends is that I’m never quite sure if they are ‘yes-man’-ing me or if they are giving it to me straight. Of the ten friends I sent it to, just over three weeks ago, two have finished it.
What that tells me is that if it was a really good book, like I think it is, then shouldn’t they have all felt compelled to stay up all night reading it? To call in sick to work? To forego all else in life? I mean, that’s what I do when it’s a really good book. Doesn’t everyone?
So, since nobody did that, my only conclusion is that it must not be any good. Unless we believe one of the Beta Readers who finished it, who said that she ‘love, love, loved’ it. Her words not mine. And the other who said she ‘very much enjoyed’ it. Now, I love that they loved and enjoyed it, respectively, but that doesn’t really scream literary genius.
Don’t get me wrong, this is not literary fiction. It’s a trashy, funny, mystery, romance with explicit sex scenes. But that doesn’t mean it’s not well written.
I’m halfway through Book three and I’m absolutely convinced that it sucks ass. The characters feel forced, the scenarios contrived, and the dialogue boring. I know I’m a good writer, that’s not the issue. The issue at this point is fast becoming, can I make a living being a good writer.
Well, I’m off to angst land where I will most likely wallow and fret, and then send invitations to my pity party.