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You know, lately, I’ve been feeling a bit like an impostor. And a pretentious one at that. I mean, who am I to call myself a writer? Just because I’ve been writing since I was a kid, and just because my lifelong dream has been to write a book? Is that enough? I don’t have a Master of Fine Arts. And, aside from one of my essays appearing in a college magazine years ago, I don’t have any publishing credits to my name. Well, there was that one time when I was fourteen and got sucked in by one of those vanity publishers advertising themselves in the back of a “Seventeen” magazine. “Only $39.99 to have your poetry published in our anthology!” So of course I forked over the cash and sent in two of my poems. A few months later, a beautifully bound book with a sky blue cover and silver lettering arrived in the mail. Yeah, it sure was fun seeing my name printed in there (among all the other angst-filled ramblings of teenage poets). But I think I knew deep in my heart that it didn’t really count.
So anyway, I think this feeling of being a charlatan may have started as soon as I added a professional signature to all of my emails, branding myself as a Polish-American writer. Or maybe when my box of 500 business cards came in the mail the other day. Who do I think I am, getting business cards? And a website, for crying out loud?!
You know, honestly, here’s how I thought this whole book-writing thing would play out. I would write my first draft. Then I would revise the hell out of it. I’d get some people to read it and give me feedback and then I’d revise it even more. Finally, I’d send it in somewhere and wait - hopefully for good news. That’s it. I didn’t realize I’d have to be doing things like building my own website and becoming a marketing expert before my book was even fully finished - I thought I’d have, you know, my own people to do that stuff for me once I had an actual publishing deal.
(My naiveté is adorable, isn’t it? Tell me you aren’t leaning your head to the side and thinking “awwww” right this minute.)
These days, however, the reality of book publishing is quite different from what I had envisioned. Every article I read talks about the necessity of building a readership, an author platform, prior to even approaching potential agents or publishers. So that’s why I’m doing all of these things to put myself out there - blogging, networking, hiring my best friend to do a promotional video, even designing good old-fashioned paper flyers - all to encourage more people to visit my website and sign up for my mailing list, so that when I finally do start reaching out to agents, I can show them that this is for real. That I’m serious.
But it’s scary. Terrifying. Even more so than immersing myself in a hair-raising Stephen King novel while home alone on a windy winter’s night would be. I’m scared that I’ll fail. I’m scared that I’ll disappoint. I’m scared of what others will think. I’m scared that I’ll sound like a bumbling idiot in my promo (even though my best friend assured me that that’s what editing is for). I guess this fear comes with the territory of putting my creative work out into the world, and it is something I will need to learn to conquer.
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To circle back to my first question - do I need anything more than a childhood dream to become an author?
Not really. I mean, sure, perseverance and determination and all that, of course. But these days, with the possibility of self-publishing, anyone out there can call herself an author. Right?
Except that’s not what I want. I don’t want to waste your time, dear reader, by releasing some mediocre book and calling it literature. I don’t think all self-published books are crap - but some are, and I don’t want to be the one putting them in your hands. I want this to be the kind of book that you can’t wait to read, the kind that you have trouble putting down, the kind that leaves you deliciously satisfied yet wanting more. I want the writing to be solid, completely polished. I want it to sparkle like the lakes of Kaszuby on a clear summer’s day.
So my promise to you, dear reader, is this: I will work my ass off on this book. I will mold it, and sculpt it, and polish it, until it sings, until it speaks directly to your heart. I’ve still got a ways to go, I know. But I WILL do it, I promise you. Because when I set my mind on something, I follow through. (Just ask my husband. And my parents and friends. Ask anyone, really.) I promise I will not waste your time.
But if I do, please, please tell me. I promise that rather than falling apart, I will work even harder to improve my writing until it is worthy of your time, dear reader.
Love,
Magda