In the end, all that matters...

Eleven years ago I finished my first novel. The person who completed that life-long dream was filled with enthusiasm, eagerness, and hope for the future of their writing career. Today, the faint specter of that youthful exuberance can hardly be seen when someone looks at me. If they stare long enough, a slight shimmer might alert them to its presence, but unless they look closely, they are unlikely to see it.

Instead of consuming my thoughts and desires every day, my aspiration to become a best selling author sometimes hardly inspires motivation to write at all. Like some fond pastime it will bubble to the surface long enough for me to sigh and wish I had the motivation or inspiration to write. The same thing happens when I look at the paintings I’ve created that hang on the walls of my house. I look at them, feel fondness at having created something I find beautiful, and then briefly consider pulling out the canvas and paint… but I don’t. As quickly as it came, the desire or flicker of inspiration fades to black in mere moments, whether it be to paint or to write.

I’ve completed writing and publishing three novels in my life, which is three more than 90% of the world ever accomplishes. I cannot count the number of times I’ve heard someone wistfully say that someday they’d like to write a book. In fact, more often than not I hear it moments after they express astonishment at finding out I’ve written three. Most people never make it past the first paragraph when it comes to writing a novel, and yet at times I believe my disappointment can be greater than theirs. They have the luxury of feeling disappointed they never tried something. I use the word luxury intentionally, because in that place of disappointment the possibility of great success still lingers in their regret. If only they’d written that book, they could have been famous.

When I think about my disappointment, the flicker of hope at some great success has all but vanished. When I sit in front of my keyboard and read over the words of any of the four different manuscripts I have partially completed, I can’t help but feel discouraged. Much like the paintings that hang in my house, I find my stories beautiful or compelling, but unlike a painting on the wall, what is a story without someone else’s appreciation?

The cruel joke about being an author in the twenty-first century is that it’s both significantly easier to get your work published, and yet much harder to get anyone to read it. Unless your story finds that magic combination of inspiration, timing, and (let’s be honest) algorithmic favor, the chances of it fading into immediate obscurity are nearly 100%. One in a thousand stories, at best, make it past the immediate friend/family circle. Maybe a handful of those friends/family members will recommend it to someone else, but beyond that it’s really just chance, or perhaps fate if you believe in that sort of thing.

After three attempts to make my lifelong dream come true to become a best selling author, it’s hard to not succumb to the pessimistic view I just outlined above. So, when I consider what my aspirations as a creator on Vocal are, the quick and easy answer is to finally give up on this dream. I can’t help but immediately think that maybe it’s time to lay down the figurative pen, to close the word document, to forget trying to sell or market my work. The voice in the back of my mind whispers: Who is going to read it anyways? Just give up.

And yet, here I am, punching the keys on my laptop continuing to write this submission to a contest I’m unlikely to shine in. So why keep going? Why submit my aspirations when I’m harrowed internally by such a whirlwind of negativity?

The answer might be more simple than you would expect. I’m here, writing this submission because I can. That’s it. Being able to do this at all is a privilege I once understood on a deep level but have forgotten to appreciate. Like time and the elements eroding the once clear words on a headstone, my perceived failure has chipped away at a fundamental truth I once held dear to my heart.

I can still pursue this dream and passion, unlike the person who first inspired me to actually complete a novel. They can’t write a submission like this, even though I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they would. They would be fighting the negativity and would keep producing their art because that’s just who they were. Despite the way their life ended, they had an indomitable spirit and when they set their mind to something, they never gave up until they’d mastered whatever it was.

My grief at the news of their death was what propelled me to undertake writing a novel. I’d tried my hand at it several times before to no avail, but the crushing sadness at their absence from this world was what finally pushed me to see the task through. I wrote the first draft of that novel in less than a month. It was like a monster clawing at my insides, demanding to be set free. I wrote for hours nearly every day, oftentimes at the expense of sleep. There wasn’t a spare moment that would pass where I wasn’t figuring out what the next chapter contained. I had to finish the book, because that was our shared dream. We both wanted to be authors, and now I was the only one who could follow through on that dream.

I’m sad to say that in the last eleven years I forgot to keep that motivation as my focal point. Instead I replaced it with royalty reports, and the number of positive reviews I had. I replaced it with the pride of accomplishing something most of the world never does, rather than paying tribute to the humility of my beginnings as an author.

So my aspiration for this coming year as a Vocal creator, is to go back to the roots of why I became an author in the first place. I did it to honor the memory of a dear friend who shared that dream with me. I have to keep going because to give up on something I love so much would be a betrayal to the memory of someone I miss dearly.

So, to hell with pessimism and failed dreams and instant obscurity. I’m going to keep writing because I can, and because I don’t care if no one reads my work. I don’t care if I don’t win this submission. I don’t care if I’m the only person that my work inspires, because that is enough. When I die, I want to cross the river to the other side and see that friend’s bright smile and be able to tell them that I never gave up on our shared dream. So I’m choosing to let go of any expectation, of any hope for grand success, and simply doing it because I can.

I’ve decided to keep writing and keep submitting stories and poems. And to show my commitment, I’m going to post at least one work every month for the next year. I might miss a month or two because life happens but I am determined to rekindle that fire that used to burn so brightly. I want it to burn so brightly that my friend will be able to see it all the way up in heaven. Because in the end, all that matters is that I never gave up.