Thursday, November 17, 2011

It Happened Again

When you do this indie publishing thing, you(I)  hear from so many people that are so opposed to it.   I, personally, am all over the map about is this whoring?  Is this frustration?  Is this vanity?  Is this a need to enlighten?  Is this a waste of my time and other's time and space?  When the gauge by which you judge yourself is so palpable and undeniable as actual dollars or actual printed words, it is so easy to let yourself be wracked by self doubt.  I think this is normal.  I don't think I am particularly more or less filled with self doubt than any other Joe Shmoe.  And I already discussed being a Joe Shmoe and being accepting of that. And I totally feel that putting your words and thoughts out in the public eye indicates that there is a lot more going on than self doubt.  And then you get a random review from a random stranger and you are jubilant.  Not so much an ego thing, that they Like you, like Sally Field, but that the words they chose indicate they get what you are saying.  This holds far more meaning for me than having someone say  "Your style is so fun or amazing, or ridiculous, or convoluted, or strange, or  stupid, or hideous."

But then you are kind of noticing a person, and identifying with their doubts and their struggles and you go so far as to compliment them and try to encourage them and buoy them up a bit and thank them for sharing with you, and then you read something, and it is like Holy Shit.  This sucks.  This makes no sense.  I can't follow this.  My sophomore English teacher gave me more props than this will ever get.  This is fucking hopeless.  What do you do?  I know what I do, what I will do, what is the only comfortable path for me.  I am going to fade out of the scenario.  And I'm gonna wonder.  Self doubt?  Apparently I have none.  Apparently there is just a certain blindness people have.  Apparently people that love me want me to just stay in my cloud of self-delusionment for fear  of hurting me (which never seemed to bother them before) or robbing me, in my final moments, of my last thread of hope.. . Or apparently I can write.

And, you know what?  I will never have an answer for that. 

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