I started this journey a few years back, during a difficult time for me. I found a certain degree of solace and gained a new hobby as I wrote a few silly stories for friends, and more or less tinkered with the idea of writing something real. At the time I had no idea it’d bring me to writing a full novel.
As a child, I’d always loved reading. I’d read and read and read and then look for more. Then in college, I fell out of love with reading. It could have had something to do with the amount of required reading for my college classes, though I really don’t know that that was the root cause of my disaffection. No, I think what happened was the literary world was exploding at the time with books that didn’t interest me at all. Harry Potter was the only thing going around that even slightly interested me, but not to the point that I actually wanted to commit to reading the canon of books. I’d watch the movies, but that was about it.
The Twilight series was an ever-growing behemoth then and despite the surge of excitement surrounding those books, I just couldn’t bring myself to finish even book one, much less the subsequent three. The Hunger Games was also being touted as a revolutionary series that was replacing the classics in some schools as required reading; but that didn’t interest me either. The YA boom was in full swing, yet it all seemed so… pretentious. If you’ve followed me for any length of time, you know I am not a fan of pretentiousness. Music, movies, and books that are self-serious and self-important really don’t do it for me.
In essence, the literature of the time just didn’t seem all that accessible to me. I say “to me” because there was no lack of people buying and devouring these books. Books were selling. That’s not what I am saying. What I am saying is that there didn’t seem to be anything out there for me or people like me. (That’s likely my problem, but this is my site so I’m going to complain about it as if it’s the world’s problem for not supplying me with literary entertainment sufficient for my needs.)
I wanted something accessible. Something that knew it was entertainment and not abstract mythology. I wanted something that was fun. That last one especially. I may be in the minority here, but I want my entertainment to be enjoyable on a Disneyland-y, roller coaster-y, I-don’t-care-if-it’s-silly-and-stupid type of fun level. I don’t enjoy crying while reading literature. I don’t enjoy reading about horribleness. I will never pick up a book based on the amount of “social importance” it has. Sorry. Nope. I can see the merit in such books, and on a literary level, I can appreciate them. However, they don’t call to me. Nothing I sampled ever piqued my interest nor held it long enough to engage me.
The book that broke that slump for me was by an author that goes by the name of David Wong with his book, John Dies at the End. It was crude, fast paced, kind of scattershot, kind of gross, and an absolute blast. I burned through that book and picked up its sequel as soon as it was published. Both of them reinvigorated my desire to read and made me remember why I loved reading for all those years. It also drove me to think I could also write a book of similar feel and quality. At the time that was not true. I thought it was true. It was not even close.
I didn’t know the huge amount of work and effort it would take to bring the book to life. I thought that it was a quick and easy road to success. It is not. For every Stephanie Meyers that writes a book that takes her on a meteoric rise to fame and fortune there are thousands of authors that have been writing for years just to put food on the table. When we see authors like Andy Weir write their first book, self-publish it, and then see it become one of the top movies of 2015, we want that to be us. We envision that one day we will have the chance to tell our stories to people and that they will love them.
Some tell me, “I just want to get my work out there. I don’t care if it sells.” Bullshit. I understand not caring about the money and just writing for the thrill of the craft. People sell their books for free all the time and there’s nothing wrong with that. However, what I call double bullshit on is the idea that people don’t care if their books sell. In my mind, a book that is selling is a book that connects. It’s another person taking a journey in the author’s mind and finding it thrilling, exciting, compelling, romantic, erotic, or life-affirming.
You mean to tell me that you, as an author, don’t want that? Triple bullshit. When that connection is made and that person feels like their soul has been touched or that someone understands them, isn’t that why we write? So when a young boy reads about a character in a book, a character that is picked on or belittled, and he sees that character overcome and achieve greatness and because of that character he feels he can get up and go to school the next day, that's not important to you?
Of course it is. When someone reads the things you’ve put out on the page and they feel those characters are their friends; when they feel their joys and their struggles as their own, that’s magical. That’s a human connection. That is why we write. To share what we have inside with someone else and hopefully make both parties better for it. That is what keeps me doing this.
Do I want my books to sell? Yes. Yes I do. I want them to sell so well, people get sick of them. If that brings me fame and fortune, then cool. I kinda like those things. (At least, I think I do. I have neither as of this writing.) However, I want them to "sell" because it means that my soul has touched someone else's and helped them a bit when they needed it... and that's worth all the effort.