I’m just a copy of an imitation (MM)
There’s only one reason why anyone self-publishes: they’re too crap to be published in the Real World. You can fool yourself all you want but it’s the truth. That doesn’t mean you won’t make money. It just means you’re crap. And you are mega mega crap if you self-publish AND you don’t make money. I mean, how much of a fucking useless failure can you be? You load your work with sex and violence and STILL no one notices. You redo the covers, you redo your blurb, you tag tag tag, you key key key word. You FB and Twit and blog and web and site and fucking sell your on-line digital soul and you make every Faustian deal you can think of with the shallow and the sick.
There you are riding on the high of your two published novels and your six published long short stories. There you are writing a new short story, with another one ready to go, with another novel ready to go. There you are, work work, work, beaver, beaver, beaver, build those fucking dams because if you stop, you’re going to notice just how crap you are. You’re going to notice that your business account is still stuck at zero. You’re going to notice that not one single one of your supposed friends bought your book. Oh, I must buy your book, they say, but they never fucking do. They don’t care and you want them to, desperately, because you are desperate. Nothing sucks quite as hard as Van Gogh Syndrome.
I send all my published work to myself on my Kindle as an extra place to store it (sent as documents….I’m not that sad that I buy my own stuff.) Just for a fun, for a laugh, haha haha, I thought I’d read the latest short story on my Kindle, just because it feels so different. On your computer screen, your work always looks gorgeous. On an e-reader, you get to see what it REALLY looks like: this is the Real World, naked and bare.
And there it was: full of errors that I hadn’t spotted and so bloody confusing that even I don’t know what’s going on and I wrote the stupid thing.
Outside the world has gone a weird yellow colour and it’s raining (or just stopped.) It’s cold, it’s autumn, it’s beautiful. I’m listening to metal so loud I think the neighbours might come stomping up the stairs. How am I supposed to live with myself? All my life I just wanted to be published and now that I did it myself, was it worth it? Did it make a difference? Am I who I want to be?
Van Gogh Syndrome leads to a gun to your head. I don’t have a gun so I won’t know if the Syndrome would take the next step – untold genius when I’m dead. It doesn’t really matter anyway. I don’t need to die. I’m already living a suicide life.
Black black black black.