Just the other day, I’ve overwhelmed myself with the stress of having launched a book.
What kind of promotion I should do next, how to maximize sales, what to do with negative reviews, why my brain seems to stop functioning when it comes to writing, where the hell is my royalty payment, what to do with my backlog titles, whether or not I should keep writing children’s books or branch out to other genres, traditional publishing vs. self pub, why can't I shake off this writers block WTH, it’s so difficult to write a sequel, my daily life is stealing away my writing time, my writing cave looks totally uninspiring, I have no idea what to write for my next books, what should I write for my social media, how to run a successful social media, what the other bestselling authors are doing and whether or not I should copy their moves, where the hell is my writing muse when I need her the most, what if my book sales stops, what if I run out of promotion ideas, why this blogger and that blogger haven’t replied me, how to reach more reviewers, how to edit my work, what to write, what to write, and so on, so on, so on….
I drove myself mental. I burned myself and everything around me. If someone told me that writing was a blissful profession, I would strangle that person with my teeth, claws, sword, and would so expelliarmus that person into the next century.
Writing and its yada-yada business is NOT blissful. Not even close. It’s the total opposite of blissful.
Then my husband, who has gone extremely tired with my rants and enormous self-pity, snapped at me. “My God, you’re unbelievable,” he said in his most charming tone ever. “You know how many people out there wish they could have your talent and the opportunity to share their works with the world?”
I’m glad he thinks—and believes--that my talent is a ‘real talent’. Not gonna argue with him on this. But I’m gonna argue with everything else he said.
“But, but…,” I argued with the intention to burn down the world of writers with me, “You have no idea how exhausting it is to deal with the business plan and the aftermath of creating a book. You wouldn’t know. You work in a financial institution; all you do is buy and sell and calculate a simple math equation with your calculator.”
In which he replied, “Since when your number one hobby, the one that makes you smile and fly over the rainbow, makes you this bitter? Why are you so stress over writing?”
Before I could even order my tongue to shoot acid reply at him, he added, and what he said stopped my fury dead, “Write for fun. Please, I beg you. Don’t worry too much about what to do after you finish writing it, just keep writing, good or bad, funny or suck-ass, just write for yourself.”
And it strikes me. One of the greatest authors in the world once said the same thing, too. “Write for yourself,” said J. K. Rowling.
My husband, a non-artistic person, shares the same thought as J. K. Effing Rowling. Who is the writer in da house, really, me or him?
So I force myself to calm down.
Of course my husband is right.
Write for yourself.
Write for fun. Don’t worry, the rest would follow.
Write for fun, guys, #amwritingforfun!
My New Adult Contemporary novel MY LEA is availabe at
Psst. Now, that we establish that ground #amwritingforfun rule, would you add my book to your TBR pile?
*winks, bats eyelashes, smiles angelically*I run a goodreads giveaway from now until April 24th, 2015. You can enter here