My Book Came Out and I Feel Like Shit
A tale of torment, because that's just what it's like being a writer, yo.
I've been having a rough go of things lately. Family emergency kind of stuff. Desperate Housewives kind of stuff that I won’t detail here because I need to channel all this negative energy into writing at some point. It’s been tough, but I’m doing okay. The timing of said family emergency couldn’t have been worse, though, because the thick of it was happening right when my book was released, and I basically had no energy to do any book promotion.
I promise you that I’m not in any danger and that I’m doing okay. It’s just my mental state that’s in a state of shambles because I can’t do social media right.
I try to be kind to myself. If I can still put a fun outfit together, then I know that I’ve still got some creative energy. I have enough energy to take pictures of my OOTD’s. I can film videos for TikTok. I can still put on a good face, go out in public and socialize, but my mental state kind of sucks a lot of the time and I end up scrolling through social media and comparing myself to other writers who I feel are more successful. I’m just gonna admit it because I’m sure it’s a thing that plenty of other writers do. We don’t often admit to weakness.
I didn’t do my research. I didn’t make enough friends. I didn’t promote myself hard enough. I didn’t put on makeup and make fun videos of me reading my writing for BookTok even though that shit feels so cringe and I just wanna lay in bed and listen to Korn all day instead.
I keep refreshing Goodreads hoping to see more reviews. I keep watching reels on Instagram, hoping to see my book on somebody’s fall TBR. I keep checking Twitter and Threads, hoping to see myself tagged, hoping to see a mention.
I want acknowledgement. I want serotonins. I want to feel seen. I want to feel some validation instead of feeling like I’m not working hard enough. I didn’t do my research. I didn’t make enough friends. I didn’t promote myself hard enough. I didn’t put on makeup and make fun videos of me reading my writing for BookTok even though that shit feels so cringe and I just wanna lay in bed and listen to Korn instead.
So yeah, I’m kind of depressed. I hoped that releasing a new book would make me feel special again and it hasn’t. At least, not in that fantasy social media influencer way that I still stupidly believe is a real thing. I know that this is a struggle that all writers deal with at some point in their careers.
Success is a very slow burn. I find this reality hard to face. When I was 12, I read in a teen magazine that Justin Timberlake was “discovered” because he went to get a haircut and somebody thought he looked like a star. For whatever idiotic reason, I’m stubborn and still believe that this reality will happen to me, but with writing.
The right person will one day pick up my short story collection (hahaha!), read it, love it, and praise it to their masses of followers, who will talk of it endlessly. It’ll find its way into the right circles and some big-time director will want to make an entire anthology HBO series based on all the short stories in the collection. Hot actors will play all the characters. The series itself will become a part of the cultural zeitgeist, and TikTokers 10 years from now will make videos about it with a stylized retro filter. I’ll be like Stephanie Meyer, but totally cool!
It’s this fantasy thinking that tricks me into shrugging off any modicum of success that comes my way. Plenty of people have said kind things about my book. They’ve shared pictures of their copies. It’s stupid that this isn’t enough. I know deep down that every person who reads my work and goes out of their way to comment on it is a real human who I made a connection with. Every little bit of connection matters. It’s what art is supposed to do.
I write this post on the first real gloomy day of September. It’s the fall weather I’ve been craving. The sky is overcast. The pavement is damp with rain. I’ve got the window open halfway and a cool breeze is filtering into the kitchen. I turned off the lights. I lit a candle. I made a hot cup of coffee in a seasonally-appropriate mug. Magpies are chirping in the tree outside, the leaves of which are just beginning to decorate the ground. This is some hardcore white girl fall shit, but it’s what my therapist would call “living in the present”, and I can promise you I’m getting the kind of serotonins that no Spirit Halloween trip could ever provide.
Success is a very slow burn.
Writing is all about the little things. I often lose sight of that and fantasize about some magical number of reviews or likes or copies sold is going to make me feel like a person who matters. The reality is that I really just needed to take a fucking break and just enjoy life for a bit. Sadly, my life isn’t all that exciting right now. My beloved cat Bob passed away at the end of summer and I took some time to clean all his things and the areas of the house where he used to spend his time. Many of those places, including the desk that I’m writing on, were absolutely disgusting and covered in hair and water stains. He has this habit of dipping his paw into his dish to drink and there was caked-on water EVERYWHERE that I vigorously scrubbed down while listening to a podcast called Podcast 99, which is all about the pinnacle of 90s culture that was Woodstock 99.
And while processing the death of my cat, I cleaned and laughed and I got Serotonins.
Instead of penning newsletters, I’ve been doing these sorts of mundane chores. It’s paid off for my mental health. The podcast inspired me to brainstorm a fantastic backstory for the protagonist of my WIP.
I even had a bit of energy last weekend to film some clips of me making coffee, and I made this video as a creative way to deal with my angst over having no writer friends in my area. I think it’s honest and a bit funny, and was at least a creative way to do some marketing whilst feeling sad.
I also treated myself to a thrifting trip and found a copy of J.W. Keter’s Infernal Devices. Steampunk isn’t normally my cup of tea, but something about it spoke to me and I’m enjoying the change of pace. I tend to take my writing so fucking seriously and reading genre books allows me to just take a deep breath and just enjoy a fun and thrilling story.
I suppose my takeaway here is that I needed the break I took. Writing about myself can get daunting at times. I really struggle with marketing because it doesn’t feel “creative”. It lacks authenticity. It feels like work, like a chore, and I suppose that I still need to figure some things out, how to spin that chore into something that is creative and cathartic at the same time.
Maybe I’ll have it all figured out by the time my next book is released.
In the meantime, you can buy yourself a copy of my current book, Ending in Ashes, a minimalist take on gothic fiction. If it strikes you enough to leave a review (good or bad!), feel free to do so on Goodreads or Instagram or TikTok so we can all try to promote short fiction a bit more.
This hurts my heart... Because I relate to so much of what you said (I even blogged about the same thing recently) , and I know how soul-crushing it can feel. When it seems like everyone else is recognized. When they all seem to get the accolades and opportunities and people gushing about their work. Honestly though, I'd bet they felt like this at some point.
You are seen. From one “domestic engineer” to another-- (we really must retire the phrase housewife--we need something more fearsome to take its place. Let’s brainstorm on this) --your feelings are valid. Just don’t let that mean voice in your head get to you too much, and if it does, tell it to get the hell out and bring you back a much deserved treat and glass of your favorite concoction.
Thank you for sharing your vulnerability with us. You are not alone in this.🩷