life, literature, love

Published Doesn’t Equal Published

I should be happy. I should feel great. I should look into a pink and purple future with eyes wide open and glowing with excitement.

I’m not. So, what went wrong?

After hearing from agents and publishers one time too many that my writing is beautiful, the talent clearly there, the handiwork elaborated but, unfortunately, the story not commercial I decided to become an indie author (and hey, doesn’t that sound much better then self-publishing?).

Hours of proof-reading and a very breathless moment after seeing the artwork for the cover (done by one extremely talented young lady) later it is there. One can actually buy the German paperback and ebook of Choose Life on Amazon – worldwide.

Plus I actually was asked to sign my book. Like a real author. A real published author.

So, why don’t I feel different? Why don’t I sort of float?  Why are there no violins when I wake up in the morning?

The answer seems mundane: Published simply doesn’t equal published.

There was no publishing house who wanted to sign me. Not one believed that story would sell. No explosions, no dead bodies, no vampires, no sex scenes… I mean, come on, what was I thinking? That I could proove there’s an audience for that? For just a quiet story?

Well, there must be a little piece of me who believes. Would I have gone on that adventure otherwise? would I even have invested in a professional translator?

I’m not insane, maybe crazy, but not insane. I listened to that little voice whispering “but I do believe”. I listened because at the end of the day I have to be able to tell myself I tried all. It’s an adventure. No one knows where it will lead.

Not long and the English edition will be out. Maybe I won’t feel different then, maybe I will. That’s not what matters. The only important thing is: I did all I could to succeed.