Only myself. This is one of those posts where the true confessions erupt from common sense evaluations. Where the pensive gives life to the faith and trust issues. The place where every writer drives their thought processes to and parks at the cliff of a designated lookout point.
I’ve written posts about many topics in the writing/publishing venue. Gone over the nonsensical and the meaningful. Gathered interviews from editors and authors who gracefully shared their perspectives on the industry, writing, and business of it all. Gazed into the biz as an outsider. Gained a great deal, disliked a lot, valued some issues, and established some incredible relationships with published and pre-published writers. Gambled at publishing from the custom end of things.
As important as connections and networking are, they don’t measure up to real relationships. I’ve gained some genuine friends via this format and others' blogs and by contacting authors with heartfelt praise for what they’ve written. The respect I have for those who plod through the doubt, the empty words which often surface in the process of writing, the distaste of selling one’s product with no guarantees of “success”, the hours of self-imposed (and often desired) solitary confinement as they construct what they hope matters to someone and preferably many someones, is enormous. I can say I know what it’s like and mean it.
As much as I’ve learned, it’s probably still a pittance compared to those in the trenches of this morphing industry of traditional publishing. Not completely sure I’m a fan. Love fiction. Will always read it and hope to always write it. I’m on the verge of another custom-published novel venture. Notice how I tucked that information into the fourth paragraph, fifth sentence (including fragments for all you rule nags). Many will have stopped reading by now or skipped right over that assertion. Just as well because it’s a ways off and I’m not promoting it yet. I do know one thing for sure. Whether or not it’s a fool’s venture, it’s a necessary choice for me. At this point.
So. Kidding myself by believing my novels have merit, value—that they’re potentially meaningful to those who choose to read them? Probably. But from the edge of the cliff looking at the spectacular view of life, my vision is limited. However, I know the One whose vision sees forever. I know the One who exudes grace to me as my heart-cry longs for Him. I know the One who tempers dreams according to His will. And I know the only One I truly must please. I can’t see any farther than Him.
God, it’s all about you. All the time. In every way. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.