Writing A Book Is Hard And Other Complaints That Don't Matter

Upon returning home from my first writing conference, I was motivated and ready to seriously tackle that one thing I have been yacking about for a century, writing a book. I didn't know the 'right' way to do it or how to get it published or who would want to read it, so I haphazardly wrote in a few different programs without knowing what the fuck I was doing. That's the truth. I didn't have an outline or a platform or a pitch or anything that resembled a book. I had thousands of words floating in a computer program. Pretty impressive, I know. I decided that it was time to print it all out and take a good look at the shit I had accumulated. So I did. And what I had surprised the shit out of me. 120 pages of ranting, complaining, whining and semi-funny stories. And it was a cluster fuck. There was no rhyme or reason to it, no single concept and I had no idea how to put it together in a clear and readable fashion. I still don't. I have taken scissors to most of it, thrown out crap that no one cares about and attempted to organize the vomit that exemplifies my brain. It's a full time job and it is really hard.

I know, boo hoo. "People write books all the time, stop your bitching." You are right, they do. And I have no room to complain about a job where I sit on my ass all day and type on a computer. Especially when I reminisce about the days when I use to scrub public toilets and wipe feces off of walls. The problem is, I don't know how to do this thing I am supposedly doing. One day I am a writing genius, putting it all together and I can imagine thousands of people wanting to buy my book. The next day I can't remember how to spell or what adjective to use and I'm convinced that I will end up seeing my book at the Dollar Store 24 hours after it gets published. Where I will then buy each and every copy, sit in my car drinking a bottle of white wine and cry alone. While listening to Neil Diamond. Truthfully, I don't know how it's going to turn out and that's what makes me manic. But I'm not giving up and if my book does end up at every Dollar Store on the West Coast, at least I'll have a reason to take a month long road trip.

The Rest Of The Story

I know you wouldn't expect any less than the dirty, nasty and sometimes heart shattering truth on this blog. That's really the whole point, isn't it? Today, I want to share with you some other experiences I had while attending my first writing conference and let you know that it wasn't all singing birds and skipping through meadows.  There were comments and information that made me want to crawl inside my messenger bag and cry myself to sleep. I'm still working on growing a thick skin in order to pursue my dream of being a writer, I was reminded many times how imperative that would be.

During one particular workshop, while attempting to share my genre (which I wasn't clear on) and a little bit about my writing (which is hard to explain without reading my work), I had a woman (who had spent many years working for big publishing companies) say this to me.

"The type of book you are writing is written by well known people who already have a platform." 

The end. Perhaps a warning that I shouldn't write it. Perhaps a kind reminder that it won't be easy. Perhaps just a mean spirited bitch attempting to make a mockery of me in front of 20 strangers. We will never know. I didn't ask.

I also became privy to these butthole puckering facts in regards to large publishing companies:

• 5% of authors make 95% of the money. So yeah, striking it rich as a published author...not so much.
• Some publishers look for authors who already have 25,000 followers on Twitter before they will read a manuscript. Shoot me now, with my 700 Twitter followers in tow.

I used the margins of my notebook to manically scrawl the following notes in order to keep myself from throwing a style toddler tantrum.

I have no outline.
I have no title.
I don't know my niche. 
People use fancy words and I don't have a dictionary.
As I'm trying to explain my book, I stutter and say 'like' too many times. 

That's the reality. There were moments when I didn't feel that I was good enough to be there. I was an insecure little girl among grown up ladies in high heels who have real jobs and a pitch for their book. I was "just" a mom with a blog. I was a newbie with a pile of papers in a pink folder being allowed to eat dinner with folks who had manuscripts and agents. Regardless, I left California with more drive to write than I had in a long time. While some of these experiences could have sent me running to Starbucks and begging for my job back, it didn't. I felt that skin thickening and I felt like a writer.