Yesterday I saw a sign that said “Live like someone left the gate open.” It summoned to mind a dog running like crazy, sniffing everything he’d never been allowed to sniff, peeing freely wherever he wanted. Yeah, it’d be nice to live life that way.
Today, I saw a meme of a sign that read “Whatever you do today, do it with the confidence of a 4 year old in a batman t-shirt.” And I thought, yes. That’s what I need to do.
I’m a writer.
That does not mean I’m famous.
The publishing world is not designed for people like me. I know this. I am nothing but a middle-class white woman who hasn’t had any real hardship in her life. There’s nothing remarkable about me to make me stand out from the crowd.
I am everywoman.
I can string words together, sometimes even brilliantly. I know the basic rules of grammar (don’t ask me about who/whom though) so I can edit my own work and there won’t be any egregious errors. I also have a pretty decent vocabulary—hence egregious.
I’m a good writer, but I’m still everywoman.
I remember how excited I was when my first book was published. It was a good little romance. I still think it is. I’ve gone back and re-read it without flinching. Much. It was traditionally published by an ebook publisher. In fact, it came out in July 2010. It’s been out for thirteen years.
I’m still not famous.
Since 2010, I’ve had two more traditionally published ebooks (both romance). But I have self-published ten romances, a romantic fantasy trilogy, two children’s books, a young adult book, a comic book, and most recently, seven books of poetry.
Somebody left the gate open.
So here I am, a self-published, relatively unknown writer, frolicking along on the roadside where I’m not supposed to be, publishing books like I’m a 4-year-old who believes fiercely that I can become a superhero—or at least pee anywhere I want to. To make it even better, I now own a bookstore and I try my best to encourage people to try other writers than those embraced by the publishing world.
Because there are more stars out there than those you see at first glance. Some of us just aren’t given the opportunity to shine.
Are you sure you wish to hear my tale? It’s really only about me.
From “Han River” by Michelle Garren-Flye