I have not yet read N.K. Jemisin’s work, but I think she’s very close to the top of my TBR pile simply for this one quote, which I stumbled across a few weeks ago:
“Tell them they can be great someday, like us. Tell them they belong among us, no matter how we treat them. Tell them they must earn the respect which everyone else receives by default. Tell them there is a standard for acceptance; that standard is simply perfection.”
These days, I feel a brief moment of genuine puzzlement when somebody asks me why I self-publish. It’s akin to asking me why I eat food or drink water. I…don’t have a choice? I think I have a standard answer for more public spaces, but the truth lies somewhere near that cage where my self-doubt lingers. You know, the one I try not to feed in the off chance it becomes paralyzing.
If I don’t self-publish…my books will never see the light of day.
I don’t know why I feel this. Certainly, I have piles of rejection letters from my query days, but not as much as others who then go on to become published. But I have these little, niggling doubts. My first ever rejection letter was handwritten from Tor, telling me to try them again. In those days, it felt like a guiding light. Great, I thought. That means all is not lost! Yet that was the last I would ever get. Even after rewrites and a few different projects, most of my attempts were met with silence. There came a point where I just felt utterly and hopelessly lost, like I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.
Every single guide I read assured me–all you have to do is write better! So I did. I tore apart my craft like my life depended on it. Learned to read critically. Learned to apply those skills. Scrapped entire novels, wrote and rewrote them while I continued to query. But the doubts started. The rejections never mention my writing. They don’t mention anything. And then diversity talk reared its ugly head, and I began to think, Maybe it’s not your writing. Maybe it’s you.
Well, shit.
I jumped into self-publishing because it took me away from that hell and into a new, manageable one. Going straight to the readers was gratifying. I learned what I was doing wrong, but more importantly, what I was doing right. That I was doing something right. People connected to the characters. Didn’t think my writing was terrible. I had made such leaps and bounds with my work that I now have to struggle to remember where I was last year.
Not too long ago, I was asked if I was going to get an agent. I said I might with my next trilogy. But the truth is, thinking about traditional publishing fills me with a sense of dread. Those doubts don’t go away. What if they’re not open to more diverse fiction? Being self-published means I own my own business, so I’m aware of the marketing challenges. Blackwood Marauders, which is a more generic fantasy, practically markets itself, whereas I have to be extremely creative to get people to check out The Wolf of Oren-yaro despite the acclaim. What if they have a quota, and I don’t meet it? Filipino fantasy isn’t exactly a trend, is it? Never will be a trend? We’re nurses and janitors, not writers. And I don’t make social or political commentary…I’m never going to be the type of writer that wins those awards…my characters’ journeys tend towards personal…
The only place where there is no room for doubt is between the lines, when I’m writing. Despite everything, I still write as if I am querying a traditional publisher, and edit to the best of my ability (which is not always easy, given I am a single person releasing about 2-3 books a year). I still appreciate the standards they set put, even if they can’t always agree on all of it, and shoot for them most of the time. Still trying for perfection, knowing it doesn’t make a damn difference. It’s not the work. It’s me.
But what the hell else can I do but keep writing?
