I like to say that I’m lucky to have been born to a hard life, because I’ve never had the chance to be comfortable. I still remember my parents chugging down energy drinks in the middle of the night, trying to finish an engineering contract for a local government official under the threat of death. For the chance to continue living in the slums and buying no more than the basic necessities, my parents have had to push themselves, juggling work and education and second jobs I had to help with (not sure there were many other kids in the neighbourhood who knew how to work AutoCAD at twelve years old). I spent many an evening alone in an empty house, waiting for them to come back. Sometimes I even spent those nights in fear that they never would.
So I’ve known from the very beginning what it meant to do everything, to take the road less traveled, simply for the chance to survive. Hustle or die, I think I’ve learned. And so when the road I’d been travelling ended for me last year, my soul-searching led me to back to this writing thing. Months of marketing and research and so much more writing than I’ve probably done in my life later, I’m sitting here looking at my rapidly depleting bank account, hoping it all works out. Well–it’s not like I have a choice.
Not having a choice is liberating. I don’t bother myself with questioning the what-ifs. The answers are pretty dismal, anyway. What if I continued trying to get my degree? (I can’t afford the tuition, and there’d be no one to look after the kids). What if I went back to work? (I’d have to look for a new nanny, and with what I would make minus what the nanny would cost, plus the added expense of travel and food, I’d barely be bringing home anything). Ah, life. The added despair gives you flavour.
I’ve made leaps and bounds since last year, no question about it. From making one sale a month to people I’ve had to directly talk to (zero sales, if I did nothing), I’ve reached a point where I can no longer track how or why I’m selling books. And we’re still talking about the same book, Jaeth’s Eye. The sequels aren’t even selling yet–something I hope that having the box set available will change. And apparently this shit gets better the more books I release? Good. I don’t want to pressure you, The Wolf of Oren-yaro, but the kids have been eating more and more every day.
This isn’t a downer post. This is a matter-of-fact post. I like facts. I got this far by being realistic. And writing these things allow me to confront my fears. I think it’s clear to anyone that I’m riddled with anxiety from head to toe, but fuck if I’m going to let that stop me from pushing through. There’s a pitbull in my brain that keeps going even when the rest of me wants to just lie down and give up. Sure, the self-doubt gets out of control sometimes…sometimes it wraps me up in its beefy arms and takes me for a spin through hell…but for most of the time, we’ve come to a reasonable balance.
Pure tenacity. It’s a beautiful thing.
