At least some of my readers are aware that I have been working on novel length fiction. I have been working for years, actually. And I say “novel length fiction” rather than a novel, because it has been the plural over the years. There have been times when I felt as if nothing would ever see the light of day. But I persevered over the many years with a dogged determination and, at long last, something has reached the light of day.
It has been a long and unique journey between the there of when it all started to the now when something has finally reached the light and air of public reading. To reach the there and then of way back we must roll back to the fall of my fifteenth year when I started writing what would become my first completed piece of novel length fiction. It wasn’t the first story I ever wrote, or told, but it was the beginning of the first novel length fiction which I finished some many, many months later.
At that juncture of completion I decided that story should not be published and so I set aside the many months of work and began another story. If the first novel took long to write, the second took longer–much longer. Double the time, triple the suffering.
Suffer, suffer. The life of a writer is all about suffering, didn’t you know. But those years spent beating words like a smith were years of learning, too. Year passed to year and on at least one occasion I came close to quitting, giving up on that story as a failure (though in writing there is no complete failure if you learned something from the writing). In the end I persevered and that story was completed also.
But it hasn’t seen the light of day, not yet. You see, a funny thing happened along the way. As I was writing this long novel I wearied, in a way, of the story I labored so long at and I began to see all the folly and silliness in me and the story. That was a good thing, both because it made me stop taking myself so seriously and stop being quite so burdened with my writing, but also because it gave me another story.
In the middle of writing this long story another story came to me. It was, you might say, a parable of that first story, and a parable of me. The first was long, this was short. The first had (some) airs of gravity, and certainly some grimness. The second was all folly and air, a lampoon of all the other thought to be.
Strangely, or perhaps not so, that second story was easy to write. It flowed out so easy, and it was finished, and then the big story was finished, too.
The novels were finished, but our tale doesn’t end here. Because, once you’ve finished a story it still hasn’t seen the light of day–not yet. It still must get out to the readers, the story must still take wing and fly out to the reader, soaring through the imaginations yet waiting.
So I submitted both stories for publication. For someone who doesn’t like forms, rules, and all that other rigid stuff that is part of the professional world, it was a taxing experience. And, in the end, for naught.
The rejections came back, with not a word as to why. There could be a million reasons why. Was the writing not good enough, or did I simply not know how–or where–to sell myself?
It was a time of choices and decisions. Did the rejections mean my two stories weren’t good enough and that I should put them aside and start on yet another new story? No, I decided. My stories weren’t the best ever written, true. My stories wouldn’t make millions of dollars for anyone, true. But I believed they were stories that some people, somewhere, would like to read.
Then should I find someone else to sell me and my writing, or should I go on alone? Onward alone, I decided. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest decision if one is thinking about riches and fame, but it was my decision. The reasons I could give are myriad, but the simple answer I would give a stranger on the street is, “I decided I could pursue riches and fame, or happiness, and I chose the latter.”
With the developments of recent technology self-publishing has become much easier and (I think) much more likely of success. If the year was 1807 or 1907 or even 1987 and I was rejected at traditional publishing venues my only choices would have been to get an agent or start anew. I simply don’t have the money or the ability to successfully self-publish through traditional means. Self-publishing with all the advantages and conveniences of modern technology has been hard enough, and it remains to be seen if I will be successful.
My first foray into this field was not with my own writing, and it was a beginning which prepared me to venture on my own self-publishing. But there was much more I would need to learn. There is much more to know, and do, if you intend to be released into the big world of big stores through major distributors. ISBN, EAN, CIP . . . the acronyms were enough to send my head whirling, not to mention everything I had to read and all the processes I had to figure out and follow.
But I overcame, or at least managed. The printing company was selected, the book was put together and the cover made (both with great anxiety) and at last the galley copy came back and everything was ready. The book was ready for launch.
Because of time and money constraints I couldn’t self-publish two books at once. I hope to eventually have both of these very different books released, but for the present I had to choose one, and I chose the shorter and light-hearted. It is called The Stuttering Bard of York, and very soon, dear reader, I will be introducing the story to you.
Ten years after the writing venture began, after many twists and turns, a book has finally reached the light of day. Stick around, and you’ll get a chance to read it.
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