The time is 9:49 p.m. on Sunday December 9,2012. Today I hosted my very first authors Q&A on Goodreads.com, and no one came. Oh sure, one person signed up to attend. I invited 5 people. That's almost all of the friends I have and I left posts on Facebook. Not one person asked a single question.
Makes me wonder, if not one person cares to hear the story of a fucking guy who made an XXX online sex show with his own cousin, my book is destined to fail. My protagonist is a fucking Internet pornographer for Pete's sake, and still no body cares. My poor beloved novel is doomed.
I love writing. I really do. I love connecting scenes, building characters. I even love studying grammar, and sitting on my couch late at night, drunk, and painting pictures with words. But I hate writing because it has brought me unprecedented despair, sadness and feelings of failure. Nothing else in my life has done that to me.
I was hoping to talk to someone today about my novel, anyone. No one wanted to talk to me. Maybe it's not a lack of interest on the part of readers, maybe my ads suck, or maybe it's my cover. Maybe I should just face facts and realize the whole idea for my novel sucks. No one wants to hear the story of a Latino who doesn't cheat on his wife, or sell drugs, is not a vampire, a secret agent or a psycho. He is just a guy who is willing to go to Hell for his family. Maybe I need to face facts and move on.
I love writing and I will continue to do it. As a matter of fact i am starting to consider my next novel. But I am writing at this point because I CAN'T stop. But I now write with a pessimism that was not there before I published my book, and a certain degree of sadness.
Makes me wonder, if not one person cares to hear the story of a fucking guy who made an XXX online sex show with his own cousin, my book is destined to fail. My protagonist is a fucking Internet pornographer for Pete's sake, and still no body cares. My poor beloved novel is doomed.
I love writing. I really do. I love connecting scenes, building characters. I even love studying grammar, and sitting on my couch late at night, drunk, and painting pictures with words. But I hate writing because it has brought me unprecedented despair, sadness and feelings of failure. Nothing else in my life has done that to me.
I was hoping to talk to someone today about my novel, anyone. No one wanted to talk to me. Maybe it's not a lack of interest on the part of readers, maybe my ads suck, or maybe it's my cover. Maybe I should just face facts and realize the whole idea for my novel sucks. No one wants to hear the story of a Latino who doesn't cheat on his wife, or sell drugs, is not a vampire, a secret agent or a psycho. He is just a guy who is willing to go to Hell for his family. Maybe I need to face facts and move on.
I love writing and I will continue to do it. As a matter of fact i am starting to consider my next novel. But I am writing at this point because I CAN'T stop. But I now write with a pessimism that was not there before I published my book, and a certain degree of sadness.
