And now back to the chronicle of my path to becoming a published author.
So I've been writing, and writing, and writing. I finish my first book, a bloated mess of science fiction romance (SFR, a term I just learned last week!) at nearly 200,000 words. So that means it has to be finished because how could I keep going, so I stop that one and start to write the one I've been wanting to write for years. This is the one that I've had scenes in my head for so long that the words just flew out of my fingertips. And I write it and finish it and am happy with it. Which leaves me nothing to do. So I write another SFR set in the same place as my first, and when that is ninety percent done, I write another contemporary. When that is nearly done, I switch to SFR again and write another one. This I do within about a year. Amazing. And maybe a little twisted.
I think the few that know I am 'writing' think I am still refining the first story. Because I don't really tell anyone much detail. I feel silly about the time I've spent on it and that natural and inevitable insecurity about how my writing isn't good and NO ONE will ever like it. Not a chapter or a sentence or even a word of it. I don't really know what I am doing, or why I am doing it. No one reads it. It's just me and the laptop screen and my stories whenever the house is quiet and the chores are done enough that I don't feel guilty for ignoring them.
But then the whole 50 Shades thing happened in 2012 and I kept hearing was how this wasn't an especially well-written book but people still loved it and talked about it and recommended it. That's when a little light went off in my head. If so many people liked that, there might be a few out there who would like what I had written. Not that what I wrote was in any way comparable to 50 Shades, but still, daydreams are free. This was the summer of 2012 and I was stuck in the house with the air conditioning thundering because it was one hundred degrees every day. Why not wonder?