When I write anything–especially my novels, I put my heart and soul into it. I’m not an exception. All authors do.
I realize I’m ready to publish when I enjoy reading my book. At that point, I automatically think everybody will enjoy the story. I want my readers to love it so much, they will tell others about their experience, so the “net” will be cast to capture a larger audience. More people will turn my pages, and maybe someday, I’ll even get a royalty check. That’s what we all want, right?
But I have a small problem. Two of my best friends have told me, “I find your books hard to read.”
Hmmmm what do they mean? “Hard” to read? I write my books in the same style as I write my blog. Straightforward, easy to read, and hopefully, entertaining. What’s the problem?
Of course, right away the insecure artist side of me says, “My stories are not sophisticated enough.” OR “I’m not good enough for them to waste their time on my book.” OR “Are my novels really bush-league books?”
Why does it bother me that these two women don’t like my books? Why can’t I bring them into my fold? Worst of all, why do I forget so many others who have raved about my stories and can’t wait for the next one to come out? Have I fallen short or is it just their literary tastes that leave me in the dust? Why don’t I stop to think that perhaps they don’t care for World War II history or a good love story?
A person could drive themselves nuts over such rejection.
I truly thought my writing skin was thick enough to take rejection after 20 years of a professional writing career. But when two of my best friends didn’t like my stories, I took it personally. Shame on me! I know shouldn’t even care. Right?
Thank goodness a small voice in my head counseled me. “Get over it. Accept the fact the stories just don’t appeal to them. After all, you didn’t write to please them, did you? You wrote these books because the stories inside of you were screaming to get out.”
Then I take a deep breath. Breathe. Count to ten and tell myself, “Okay, I can deal . . .I think . . . Someday.