There And Back Again

Where the heck have I been for the last four months? After months of semi-regular blogging, nothing.

After the launch of The Reluctant Agent, I thought I was gung-ho to start the next book in the Reluctant series. And I was. I wrote the first chapter fairly quickly and things seemed like they were on their way.

Until they weren’t.

Admittedly, I have been busy over the summer. Band season was in full swing and I typically played in at least 2 concerts a week. But I had time to write, oftentimes having hours at a time.

And I couldn’t bring myself to write.

Almost any activity seemed preferable to writing. I simultaneously looked forward to and dreading writing.

And it seemed pointless.

While my sales of The Reluctant Agent were great at the Sherburne Arts Festival (and I’m so grateful to everyone who purchased copies), I’ve sold only single digits of copies since then. I tried playing with Amazon Ads to boost sales – the first attempt ended with no impressions (so it cost me no money), the second attempt garnered some impressions and two sales, but that’s it. I tried to set up a signing with a local book store and after providing my information, I heard nothing. I emailed them twice more and got no reply. An attempt to sell my books at another local store has likewise been answered with silence.

I began to wonder: what’s the point? I felt like the more I pushed, the less the universe cared. I spend all of my free time trying to fit in writing. Was it really worth it?

Fast forward to this past weekend…

This past weekend, I went on my (nearly) annual writing retreat. I set myself up in the cabin in the picture. Since I had driven two and a half hours to get there and spent real money to rent the cabin, I felt like I really had to write whether I wanted to or not.

And so I did. I wrote on and off from 3:30 Friday afternoon until about 9:00 that night with a break for dinner. The next morning, I wrote from 9:00 to 9:00.

I just kept at it and at it and while I can’t say I wrote a ton of words, I made substantial progress. However, something more important happened:

I remembered why I like writing.

It’s the act of building the story, of researching the stupid little details I put into the book that brings me joy.

With the lead up to The Reluctant Agent, I was busy with editing, building the cover, creating the print and ebook editions, and marketing. Everything about the business of writing, but not the actual writing.

And when all of that work seemed to result in nothing, I got discouraged. I wasn’t consciously blaming my lack of success, but it certainly fed into my ongoing battle with Imposter Syndrome (see this post for more details). If all that work wasn’t achieving results, why bother?

The answer came to me this weekend: the success is in the act of creation, not the selling of the creation.

Now please don’t mistake what I’m saying: I very much want my books to be successful. I want everyone to buy copies of my books. But the reason I do it is for the creation – the process. I confused the success of the product with the success I had already achieved – writing a book.

So now what?

I think I have my writing mojo back.

For the first time in forever, I was eager to write a blog post. Tomorrow night, I’m looking forward to spending more time writing. Because that’s where I get the joy in this.

That being said, tomorrow, I have an opportunity to sell my books at an Art fair at work. I would love to sell out of the supply of books I’m bringing, but you know what? Even if I don’t sell anything tomorrow, I still get to come home and write. And that sounds pretty damn good!

Happy Journeys!

Mike

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