The Numbers (This is NOT a rant)

Maybe I need to redefine what ‘success’ is.

I like writing. No, I love writing. I don’t like promoting myself. I don’t like being in any sort of spotlight. I just want to write.

I hate the daily conversations about if my book is ‘selling’, mostly because it comes from people who haven’t read my work, have no interest in reading my work, and only want to know how many copies I’ve sold.
They don’t care about the twelve year journey. They don’t care about the nights I killed myself to be published.
And I don’t understand how it validates them. I don’t understand how what I sell, or whether I’m selling or not, affects them in any way.

I guess I’m at fault though, because I pushed to be part of this. I demanded that people take me seriously as an author. And some people do, don’t get me wrong. I’ve had positive feedback about the work I’ve produced. I’ve opened eyes, surprised people, and I’ve had some very interesting conversations about the characters I’ve created. I really enjoy that side of things.
I love when people ask me about why I started writing, or why I never gave up, etc.
I dislike promotion because it feels fake. I want people to read because they want to, not because I’m trying to trick them into it.

I’m selfish (for the most part). I freely admit that. I put me first, to enable me to put my daughter first in the future. When I think of success, it’s not popping champagne and wearing expensive clothes. It mainly consists of EVERY door being opened to my daughter, and being able to live life by my own rules.
I’m asked about sales and I answer honestly: I don’t know. I don’t religiously check every day. I just … Write. I’m a writer. I like my pace, and the speed everything is going at.

Do I believe I wrote a good book? Yes. Is success out of my reach? Is it fuck!