Didn’t Want to Wish Anymore

I’m trying to put up a website so I can like, look legit. And not like some random person who super wants to be a distinguished author but has no googeable site. It seems a necessity nowadays and if I’d known that, I would’ve paid more attention in my computer classes and not challenged classmates to rapid rounds of minesweeper, which is pretty much the only other thing I use my computer for. And yeah, I have this blog and *horray* for that, but there’s got to be a sense of professionalism somewhere, right? Not articles about the existence of Edward Scissorhand’s penis which I’m STILL curious about. So hence the website-creating process is started and let me tell you, even with the simplicity of these user-friendly site-creators, I’m still scratching my head with “uh… I think I’m doing this right. But maybe they’ll think my lack of artistic, tech-savvy talent makes me a better writer. The worse the website, the better the words, right?” I mean, what would Hemmingway’s site look like if he had to design it himself? Probably half done and smelling of liquor. (Yes, I know websites don’t smell but if they did, his would reek of mojitos. Just saying.) So when mine goes up and joins the endless world of pages, prepare yourself for the common cave woman’s attempt at painting the Sistine Chapel.

You’ve been warned.

I said it before and I’ll say it again—I’m in the wrong generation.

…unless it’s the right generation because with this revolution of self publishing authors, I like, have a chance when I’m pretty sure my manuscripts would’ve gotten buried in the stack with every other aspiring writers’. And it may not have ever seen the sun again. I’m not saying that because I think I’m a bad writer or not good enough for publication, but because there are so many of us out here who want our work available to the masses, so they can decide if they want to read our words and not the publishers who decide if it fits the right genre and trend to make money. You know what I mean. So yeah, living in this era definitely has its perks. But as wonderful an opportunity as self-publishing is, it also comes with more sweat and tears. And I mean that. Sweat in the non-stinky exercise way because now, not only do we have to write the damn thing, we have to do the advertising which I am SO not good at it. I constantly turn to Batman and frown. “I just want to write. Can’t someone else take care of this for me? Why do I have to do it all?” Yes, there’s every bit of whininess in there as it sounds. And God bless Batman, he tells me one day I’ll be able to sit home and write and someone else will take care of all that for me. He says he has every bit of faith and confidence in me. We writers need that. Encouragement. But after all that sweat in writing and marketing (which I still have yet to do) there comes the tears. Because sometimes, it just gets really damn hard. When will it be my turn? What more can I do? And why is it so unfair that I have to work harder than everyone else? That’s how it feels at least.

Of course it’s not true.

This girl at my job works full time, moonlights AND goes to school. Are you shitting me? When does she sleep? Eat? Have a social life that involves fun things that she wants to do? But this girl has ambition. Drive. Determination. Life didn’t hand over what she wants either but she’s doing what she has to. And that makes my tears feel so foolish. Besides, it’s not like I don’t write. I’m writing right now. I write every day. How can I say I’m not doing what I love? I just want to fill my day with more hours instead of the two or three I’m able to squeeze in. So really, I DO get to do want I want. I’m blessed because so many people don’t even know what their passion is. They don’t see or know what the end goal is. And I do.

Knowing what you want is half the battle. Getting there is the other half. At least my ship has left the harbor and is setting sail for west India or the Caribbean or wherever Christopher Columbus was sailing. I’m on my way. I’ve got too books published (working on the third!), a blog that I love to write for and a website on the way, and all this since last May when I decided the story I’d been writing for the last two years was finally ready for some serious edits. A year. It’s been a year since I decided I didn’t want to sit at the same cubicle anymore, didn’t want to spend my lunches pouring over various author websites and wishing my future looked like theirs. I didn’t want to wish anymore.

I’m at a new cubicle (because I have to pay for this apartment somehow) but instead of looking at other author websites on my breaks, I’m working on my own. I’m writing my own bio and filling the screen with tidbits about my books. One year and look how far I’ve come.

Wait for how far I’ll go.