One Week to Go

So why am I having this nervous breakdown?

I’ve been here before.

This is not the first time I have a book coming out. My first book debuted in 2012, and I was a blissful idiot. :D

When the Sea is Rising Red had blurbs from folks like Tamora Pierce, Jacqueline Carey, Suzanne Young, and Rae Carson.

It had starred reviews. It came out from a respected publisher.

In my naivety, I figured these things would help.

Instead, what happened is the book sank without a trace (it did get a French deal, and an audio deal, and a PB reprint, so it had some small measure of success, but if you ask anyone if they’ve heard of it, the chances are…pretty low.)

I wrote a marmite book - people either loved or hated it, and when that happens, you end up with middling reviews.

It’s now out of print, though you can still get the audio book and probably find a pb copy in a second-hand bookstore somewhere. I have the rights back, and maybe one day it will be out there again.

Cue to now

I have a book coming out in a week from Audible.

And I’m terrified of failing at this again.

When you debut, you have no concept of just how many books sink, how many author careers end after that one novel. (I had two trad deals, and a few small indie deals, so I’m still better off than most.)

New writers see the likes of Leigh Bardugo or VE Schwabb and think that’s the reality. You think you’ll be just like them, maybe not as famous, but still getting deals and slowly building a career. (nope, the midlist isn’t even on life support anymore)

The reality is I debuted around the same time as those writers. As did so many of my writer pals. And most of us are no longer published and only a few are still writing seriously.

The few that make it are the lucky ones, and now I know how much of this business relies on pure luck and a massive marketing budget, I understand how flimsy the chance of success is.

But I’m also a stubborn shite, so I kept on writing things even if it seemed no one wanted to read them. I kept writing weird short stories and science fictional poems and lush fantasy novels. And eventually, through sheer teeth-clenched refusal to quit, I got back to this point again.

So here I am, a jaundiced crone in a sea of debut maidens, and I’m trying to let the fear go.

What happens to this book is out of my hands.

I did the best work I could, and I wrote (another marmite) book that I love, full of *ahem* desire, betrayal and dark magic. (nothing changes really, does it?), so all that’s left is for it to find its readers.

And in the meantime, I’m gonna go sharpen some skates.