I’m not an interesting person. My family tree doesn’t hail from a signer of the Declaration of Independence or any national hero. The darkest secret in our past is some bitter great-great aunt who burned the family Bible because she didn’t want anyone to know her age. Apparently, she forgot about her own birth certificate at the county office.
There are so many people vying for attention on the internet. And really, I am trying for my piece of the pie because it’s what I’ve been told to do to be noticed. No one will want to sign a sarcastic Christian author if she doesn’t have an email list. Forget a book contract with any traditional publisher unless my Instagram account has more than a thousand followers.
But I’m not that incredible.
I don’t post IG stories or have any viral blog posts. In all honesty, I usually buck tradition and shove through processes in my own bullheaded way—without putting the step-by-step on a vlog. There’s still the sting of jealousy when someone hits the ringer and gets a book deal “without even trying,” while I try to remember to keep up on my daily posts. They don’t get the fist pump moment of having ONE person added to my followers.
Maybe I don’t have the right color scheme. Or the masses won’t flock to an author who won’t have swearing in her stories, but includes toe-the-line situations that you’ll never find in an Amish tale.
Unremarkable me. An editor once told me that I couldn’t write. I keep her name in my head. Someday, I’ll be able to send her a copy of my book with an inscription: “Thank you for your cruel words. It was all I needed to prove you wrong.”
This year, I will be publishing my own novella. It’s like a big fiction book, but smaller and more convenient for stashing in a purse or under a car seat. Hopefully, I’ll also be published in three anthologies—a book of short stories. It wasn’t the path I thought I’d take to publication, but it’s exactly perfect for this absolutely, ordinary me.