Why do I punish myself . . . I’m a masochist. Masochism is an eponym — a word named after a person. Leopold von Sacher-Masoch was an Austrian writer in the nineteenth century who described the gratification he got from his own pain and humiliation. There are many self-proclaimed masochists out there today.
Oh glee! The word was named after a writer. That explains it.
I cause myself pain. Not for any sexual gratification, but for some warped belief that I must worry, berate, exhaust and embarrass myself endlessly. Daily. Hourly. I must get my book out there. I must sell. I must become a best seller. I must or DIE.
I’ve become a beggar, a madam of books, and the worst; a salesperson. Ugg! If you have a blog, I’ve talked to you. No, I’ve begged you to feature my book. I’ve posted the link on my Facebook page ad nauseam. I can no longer look my friends in the eye.
My author friends have gone so far as to create ads for me so they don’t have to look at the same cover over and over again. Sweet.
I’ve spent our vacation money on Facebook advertisement. Seriously, who does that? I’m hoping my royalties will replenish our savings. Laughing hysterically. Picking myself up off the floor. My royalties may get us into the local museum. If we’re lucky, a stop at the local fast food joint after our outing. Oh, Yay! The rewards of endless late nights, pouring my heart out. Fast food is evidently why I do this?
Those in the know, the authors who’ve got Best Seller linked to their names, advise the wannabe’s to write. Please, explain to me when I’m supposed to write when I’m too busy offering my soul and my body to anyone who will give me space for my book.
I’ve come to the conclusion that whatever I’ve done in the past doesn’t work so I’ve turned to a more unorthodox method. I light candles, I chant, and I’ve built a pseudo offering to – Seshat an Egyptian goddess of writers and her male counterpart; Thoth, the Egyptian god of scribes and writing. It’s a fairly new approach. Results are pending.
However; my new techniques are very relaxing. I lump them into the same practice as yoga. If nothing else, I’m calming my butt down and smiling instead of wearing the scowl that always graced my face. That’s a step in the right direction.
At least the new methods take no more than thirty minutes a day. Plenty of time to start my next book. And best of all, I can look my friends in the eye, again.
What’s my point? I don’t have one. I guess that’s my point. There are no set rules. Do what you can live with, not what kills you or makes your life a miserable hell. Write because it makes you happy. Get off the roller-coaster that’s propelled by nervous authors who promote everything in all ways remotely connected to the masochistic practice of self-promotion as if it’s a sure fire way to a best seller.