The life of a self-publishing author: A Deluge Of Delusion

That’s what every self-publishing author is up against.

Because every day, hundreds upon thousands of people are uploading their novels, truly believing their work is better than everyone else’s out there.

These are books that, but for the advent of e-publishing, would have remained in bottom drawers, under beds or just as computer files in 99.9% of cases.

But now they are all out there, some with half decent covers to dress them up. Some written by people who’ve never studied their craft, never trawled through twelve drafts, nor agonized over the wording of every sentence before inflicting their work on the public.

The challenge is how to get noticed amid this deluge. How to elevate your work above the tat.

I haven’t worked it out yet.

And I may be deluding myself by thinking it’s even possible.

But I know this isn’t just a question of writing more novels. Some selling is required. A lot in fact.

But I wanna write, not sell. Selling’s for salespeople, who wear ties and drive around all day and pull over into laybys for polystyrene coffees and paper and plastic-packed lunches.

That life’s not for me. I wanna write write write until the sun goes down, the cows come home and other such cliches.

Recipe for anonymity that.

Who’s going to raise awareness of my books? Who’s going to tell people they’re out there and that they’re worth taking a look at? Not the guy in the layby. He’s too busy tucking into his cheese and tomato sandwich, figuring out a way to sell triple glazed windows to people who are quite happy with their double glazed. 

If he ain't doing my selling, and if I ain’t doing my selling, that leaves Mr Nobody doing my selling, and a talented salesperson he is not.

So I’ve got to dirty my hands. Spend time I’d rather be writing, on looking for ways to get people to read, review, and rate my stuff. (These are the new 3R’s by the way. I just invented them, there and then. But that’s another post.)

The only person who can get my name out there, is me. Me, me, me. It really is all about me, me, me.

Thinking anything else would make me more deluded than I already am. Which, for the record, is very very deluded indeed.