I have this dream that one day I’ll be a celebrated author. I’ve written a handful of novels with the aim of getting them published properly, by Penguin or another publishing house that can throw tonnes of cash at it.
I was lucky enough to have a couple of agents want to look at my work, but none of them led anywhere.
It’s so disappointing, when you have poured so much time and love into a piece of work, to have nobody love it in quite the way you do. And a lot of the time, you have written about something that actually means something to you; there’s a little piece of you wrapped up in it.
In the end, I’ve self published and the books just languish at the bottom of the pile on Amazon. I think I’ve made about £35 out of my work so far!
I’ve just, this evening, finished my first little book of poetry and essays and I love it so much that I don’t know if I can bear the rejection that will come with sending it out.
But surely it’s worth a try? Surely there’s someone out there who will cherish a little piece of me? And maybe there’s a handful of readers that could heal and feel solidarity in knowing that we’ve experienced the same pain?
It’s no longer about the money; it’s about getting my words out and knowing that I’ve made someone feel better. It’s the feeling that I can reach out in the dark and say, “I’ve been there too.”