AJ Alanson, Author

I’m healing from a tiny fracture in my thoracic vertebra brought on, not by an accident or impact, but rather by one of a thousand sneezes or coughs I’ve suffered from this year’s quademic. Sucks, but I’ve had a lot of time to think about a life without writing. All of us threaten to quit, after all, this is an occupation with little recognition and less reward of you’re trying to make a living with it. Still, we want to give up on our terms. Right?

We tell our stories on a daily 2K typing treadmill (words, not kilometers), running at random speeds between inspiration and desperation, typing with one aching hand while “liking” and “commenting” with the other. We kick off our shoes and drop to run on our knees so we can design book covers with our left foot and build marketing campaigns with our right, all while holding the pen in our teeth to sign books. But to our fans, to potential agents or publishers, to our loved ones, we must seem healthy, stable, consistent, reliable – a good bet. Thank goodness our office door is shut or they might actually see the freakin’ clown show on the highwire while taming elephants and running from monkeys, because, by every measure, we must continuously prove we made the right decision when we dared to pick up the quill.

When self publishing is considered “less” by mainstream, and at most, “marketing” to build your own fan base, the odds of success get slimmer. When agents dismiss works, education, full-time commitment, production, word count, genre, and my favorite, “if you aren’t a man, you can’t write male characters,” well, now I’m scratching my head. Insert any group different than the author: sex, creed, preference, color, age, interest, career, and the list characters goes on of which I’m not acceptable to write, narrowing the field to my autobiography and let me tell you, nobody wants to read that.

Add in AI ripping off every word of ever title you ever published and some of which you never did, and then handing your words, your voice, your themes to anyone who types in the request, and no wonder so many of us throw up our hands.

If you’re starting to sense the pattern, good, because there is one. Do you see it? It’s all your fault. You didn’t do it correctly. You weren’t original, unique, or clairvoyant enough. You aren’t black, brown, red, yellow, white, blue, or rainbow enough. You aren’t already popular enough. You aren’t rich enough to afford slowly going broke, or broke enough to sacrifice for riches. You’re too broad, too narrow, too old, too young. Are the dots starting to line up?

“Oh, you’re self published.”

“But it says here you were only agented for one book.”

“So, it’s a stand alone and not a series?”

“I see this is about a fairy and a frog, but clearly, you aren’t either.”

I can keep going, but I shouldn’t have to at this point because not one iota of that destructive blaming and shaming is the truth. It can’t be. Scientifically, logically, heck, biologically, these criticisms hold no value or no one, ever, would have written anything, nor would anyone have enjoyed your writing, asked for more, and even laid down good money for your story. And frankly, if you’re like so many authors I know, the role of nay-saying, knee-capping, stuck-in-your-head, needling Aunt Eunice is already taken by your own self-doubts.

I say, if these are your original stories, then write them. Your passion is unique to you. Everyone has ideas, that’s not special. You did the work to write them down and weave them into a merry chase toward some twisty, juicy, delicious climax and finished with “The End.” Don’t run after praise, trends, or money, and recognize that nearly everything said is meant to make someone’s job easier while making yours harder. Our job is nearly impossible as it is. Anyone commenting should be helpful or stay quiet.

Obviously, I’m not going to quit writing even with pinched nerves, numb hands, and back spasms. Heck, I even blocked out a new novel while lying flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. But my takeaway is just this, what if you couldn’t write again? By definition, your imagination is good enough to take story-telling away from yourself for a few moments. If you’re like me, a panic grips your heart as you suddenly realize you don’t have enough time to tell all the tales in your head as it is, let alone all of the ones yet to come to you. I, for one, hope you’ll choose to write because your stories will never be my stories and it has become painfully apparent that I’ll never get enough.

In these times, I need to grow my own circle of interest so please comment, share, like, subscribe, follow, and buy my books wherever you find me out there. It’s appreciated.

Image is of a Jack-in-the-Pulpit I found on my slow shuffle down to my shiitake mushroom logs. No new flush but a rare treat instead.