Looking back, I could have done things differently. But it’s never too late to learn from my mistakes as I go on.
Table of Contents
It was a typical day for this young, aspiring author, feeling proud of what she’d accomplished for that day. She finished the laundry and ran errands, and now she was moving her attention to washing dishes while the dishwasher ran beside her. In her mind, she thought of nothing but to finish what she needed to finish before her husband would arrive home. She’d cooked their dinner. Everything was set, seemingly perfect in her eyes, until…
An image flashed right upon her like a lightning strike. Behind her eyelids, she saw herself offering an empty stare at the last word on the last page. Her skin fevered as her mind lingered on the scene, remembering the ice-cold shiver running through her spine to the base of her head.
Wearing a ‘Wow’ on her face, she lifted her stunned eyes to the tiled wall while her hands busied themselves with the ceramic. Because she missed the most crucial task out of all the things she could have forgotten.
The completed manuscript.
No wonder she felt like her body was about to break into pieces. No wonder why her vision began to blur, assuming it was a typical day. Lingering at the new thought, her chest clenched as fear clutched, hanging on like a constant companion, waiting for acknowledgment. As she turned the faucet off, as the silence thickened, her wandering mind stalled, thinking she’d finished it.
It had been a year, she thought. Since she joined NaNoWriMo in 2022, in her last attempt of trying to write fiction, she spent months working on racking her brain to produce a story. She was an English major, but writing a 100,000-word novel was still a different story in a different language than her own.
As her mind continued replaying those lonesome moments, studying various storytelling techniques from the experts on YouTube, crying over scenes that touched her soul, going hysterical sometimes on her desk, drawing out some art from her pain while befriending her volatile demons—tears began to well in her eyes.
And it didn’t take long before her mouth opened, letting out the soundless wails she’d kept hidden for a long time. The cries she tried to save, assuming they weren’t necessary anymore. The drama was over. She finished writing the story. Period.
“Now what?” she asked herself out loud, only to welcome another pulsating wave of fear. She tried to finish a story silently for years without letting others know about her hobby. And because she’d told nobody about it, nobody knew what she’d done. No one watched her riding on the roller coaster with her emotions and thoughts because she was alone most of the time.
Above all, nobody would ever know this book existed if she decided to keep it hidden for the rest of her life.
That was 100% in her mind with conviction based on the numbers she’d seen on her dashboard. Hopelessness was in sight, knowing she had little to no support. All she had was passion and persistence. Money? She had a negative balance in her bank account. 😣
Since she began publishing, she has earned only cents from her books and was OK with that somehow. Yet, deep down, she wished those figures would increase enough to support her and her husband’s needs and give them the luxury of affording vacation, which they had never done before. And they were heading ten years together.
Underneath her loud wishes was a subtle whisper, telling her she’d done the same process and felt proud to have done it. To her dismay, she found herself in an inescapable melancholy, slowly freezing in her overwhelming anxiety and worry and fear and trauma and whatever was in there in her unconscious.
Carefully resting the ceramic on the skin, her skin fevered out of nowhere as fear clung to her chest, radiating its warmth across her back as tears gushed and cries roared. She was supposed to feel proud this time. She’d done something most people couldn’t.
To write a novel and complete the manuscript was an accomplishment in itself.
In hindsight, she knew she’d just finished the first step. Far, far away from her vision for herself and this book in mind. Knowing her tight budget, there was no way she could hire a professional editor. She had to learn how to design book covers herself, studying the trends based on research while eyeing the recently published ones.
The work involved in her project was immense. It drew a lot from her, offering her heart and soul in her newly found art while somehow losing her mind in the process.
In the end, nobody could understand her joy and pain. No one was there to offer a shoulder and ears to listen to her woes. She was alone in the kitchen, enduring the pressure on her own, though married. It was as if she was meant to live and deal with life like that. Alone.
Convinced, she dipped her face, asking herself why she deserved this misery, why she kept crying in silence, how she could even move forward with her dreams—God. Questions flooded her mind like a dam on a stormy day as she tried to catch her breath, and her throat closed. The pain must have been so much that she cried and cried and cried. Only God knew for how long.
***
That aspiring author is me.
Though I have four (4) published books, I only earned more or less $10 and sold less than 200 copies in the last two years as a self-published author; around 60% of them are sold as free copies across ebook retailers. It doesn’t look much, right? But this is my reality. Far from the glamor you’ve seen on social media.
You see, my decision to write stories and publish books isn’t for the money. If financial security were my only reason to stay and endure the painful grit in the dark, I should have been an accountant or a lawyer. I wouldn’t have taken fiction a second chance. If my books were sold, that’s okay. If not, that’s also okay. I don’t mind it so much.
But why work so hard writing a story and work extra hard to publish it when no one actually buys it?
For me, it isn’t just about the sales but how many people have seen my book and are interested in even looking at it. I see the numbers that way rather than from a mere profitability perspective.
“When I was in kindergarten, I remember spending every afternoon playing with my toys and creating dialogues and storylines with them; while other kids spent these times having a nap.
My whole childhood, although it wasn’t a smooth ride for a young child, was filled with books and stories. All the stories I have created helped me cope with the rough and traumatic episodes of my life. For me, these stories have helped me survive the abuse from my caregivers.”
Excerpt from my article. Click here to read.
Here’s a recent example.
In early October this year, I decided to offer my books for free across eBook stores worldwide. Even though I knew I wouldn’t anticipate sales, exposure is worth more than the Euros I earn.
I certainly wish to have a lot of sales. Every author does. But my pursuit goes beyond what is tangible and real for most people. I’m writing stories to save myself, my mental health, and my life (second life after surviving suicide). If income comes, great. That’s a bonus for me. 👏
Click here to find my published works.
Yes, I’m in. What’s up for 2nd draft?
I’m writing character-driven stories, each containing a piece of me. When writing their lives, I can easily go deep and embody their stories instead of living the ‘Me’ in RL.
Imagine a prime Hollywood actress who couldn’t get over her role for months after the last filming of her recent movie. The character has become so personal that it has lost boundaries between fiction and reality.
The same goes for me.
“I have to relive the darkest chapters of my life to draw Valon’s character and then apply those memories to the page. The same is true for Clay, wherein I have to be in touch with my old ‘Self’ when I was in denial of what was stirring beneath my skin.
To write Liz’s story, I have to relive those moments in which my survival relied on how I can overcome situations where life confronted me with unexpected situations, bringing with them the difficult lessons of abuse and power play in relationships. Same power play that took Agatha’s dreams and future as an adult.”
Excerpt from my article. Click here to read.
Look. In October this year, “Dr. Clay” (temporary title, submitted to NaNoWriMo 2022) will turn two years old. 🎉
Two years straight of writing, rewriting, rewriting. And what you’re seeing on my social media is the actual rewriting of the 2nd draft, preparing a fully fleshed-out 3rd draft. Again, if everything goes well, I’ll finish the manuscript by October. If not, November or December.
Without a consistent, spiritually friendly habit like journaling, I easily get lost on the way and find myself unable to finish anything. Sad.
When I said ‘Yes’ to the project, I had to figure out how to make the story sensible for the public. Because the 1st draft is basically a mess, it’s not ready for public viewing. But that’s what I did in the past, all the way back to my Wattpad days. I published what I’d written last night. A huge mistake. 🙂
When I wrote “My Name is Pepper” in 2018 with its boring, long title, “Unknowingly Popular Confidant,” I wasn’t thinking of a series, the story’s marketability, or the book per se.
Oops! There’s more.
If you want to read the rest of the article, subscribe to the Writer Warriors Newsletter. Click here to join our community.
Leave a Reply