This is going to be a bit different. You see, there has been some ‘trouble in the sheds’. The production of books and book-related accessories – but mainly my books – has completely halted at a certain House of Publishing that I signed up with two years ago. < CUE THAT SONG BY THE ANIMALS>
“There is a house down Melbourne way, they call ‘The Surge of Hope’. But it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy, and God, I know, I’m one …” >
So ten months beyond the scheduled release of my 2nd book, and five past the proposed launch of the 3rd, I’m faced with a Big Decision: to pull the plug on ‘The House of the Surge of Hope’ and strike out alone – taking a pathway I don’t want to take and have no great enthusiasm for, but one that has now become the only remaining option: Self-publishing.
I’ve begun the research. I’m lining up my ducks. I have some good people to turn to. But I’m wondering if I can do it well enough and long enough to see it pay off.
In a previous blog I made reference to a sort of stereotypical personality type that does self-publishing really well. Brash, hyper-confident, shrieking on social media about every minor success and incremental increment. And elsewhere again to a certain type of human being who becomes dedicated, at an early age, to a ‘Calling’, from which they never waver. They are The Artist, The Writer, The Musician, The Healer, The … the .. The Skateboarder or whatever. Through and through, and without a doubt, these personalities are truly blessed.
Lucky buggers. How I envy them.
I, on the other hand, am cursed with too many talents and not enough ‘calling’. And thereabouts hangs my tale of woe, and the core of this ramble: “The Third Estate” as I’ve titled it. The third option.
(1) persevere with Mr Disappointment. (2) Strike out on my own. (3) Just do nothing. Cease to be a writer.
If I were one of those people who see everything as a ‘sign’ of one kind or another or a “Message from the Universe”, or “Guidance”, then seriously, I should have quit this game ten years ago. The facts were to hand. The “Universe” had repeatedly shit upon my only successful career, and rather than me rushing about with a bucket & mop and a mega-pack of tissues for all the tears I (should have) shed, I really should have jacked it in way back then.
Am I just pushing the same load of shit right back up the exact same hill?
I don’t expect you to answer, because I know you cannot. Only I can. I’m really just writing it up and putting it here on my blog as a kind of therapy-thing. And there are only about eight of you who follow me here anyway. And it’s not Facebook. And Mr Disappointment won’t see this (unless you blab, but I’m going to have trust you don’t, and anyway, I’ve only said things about myself, not him.)
Yeah: so how does one abandon seven years of work, 660,000 words, and a bunch of fabulous characters and story arcs? Well: every day people abandon everything: their home, possessions, place and nation, and travel perilously across the planet seeking something better. Most often purely on faith – a faith that is most times misplaced. Dropping my drooping career as a writer is actually small potatoes in comparison. I have other talents. There are ‘signs’ that this could ‘flow’ off into different directions and adventures. My talents are not yet exhausted.
What it come down to is that I just can’t come to terms with a ‘Universe” that can inject me with so many great gifts, then relentless crap upon my every effort to apply and share one of them. Why 15 great years, then another 15 of “no flow”?
Or am I just misinterpreting this shower of shit? It’s really a sun-shower!
Thanks for coming this far with me. Please resume your interesting lives.