Last week I was writing a scene in my new novel, yet to be titled,…
The excitement of the launch is over, a few books have been sold and readers have been getting back to me and I am rapt that the response is fantastic. I have had no offers of movie deals, or publishing companies fighting over my book, nor have I even made a dent in the publishing world, but I am happy that my book is out there and content to wait as I believe that my time as a novelist is yet to come.
As a writer, one starts out with great expectations, joy and optimism…but the journey soon knocks those expectations out of you and it forces you to focus on why you write. For me, it isn’t about how many books I sell or whether I am not yet a literary force to be reckoned with. I write because I want to tell a story and more importantly, I want readers to love that story, to feel changed by the experience in some small way.
At the moment I dare not look up high enough towards the heavens of literary greatness, I am feeling the climb is too arduous and too far out of my reach. My attitude has been reinforced when Amazon e-book sales inform me that I am ranked 362,785 out of one million books on Amazon. Very sobering.
Nevertheless, I continue to write.