I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said I’m going to start writing again. Truly. I would make the declaration that “This is it!” and that would be the end of it. I wanted to write. I want to write. The truth is that I think I lost my way. The books I wrote were published before I even considered making a business of it. Before things like royalties and marketing algorithms got involved. Before readers got mean and demanding, and quantity and speed of output became more important than the quality of the story.
I miss my stories. I still have literally hundreds of ideas. I miss the thrill of finishing a book and thinking “Damn, I wrote that,” when the industry was different 8 years ago. Now we finish a book and think “Damn, I have to start the next one now.”
I got so lost in trying to learn the changing marketing strategies, following reader trends and avoiding the almost daily blow ups over one thing or another in Romancelandia that I completely forfeited the one thing that mattered: writing the fucking books.
So here I am, hoping this is the last time I start again, approaching it with fresh eyes and a new understanding of the Independent Author Arena. I’m just going to write the words, and hope someone reads them and loves them. The rest of it? The business side? I’ll worry about that later.
