Two nights ago I had a dream of rescuing a book from drowning, then giving it CPR. Looking back now, I wonder if my mind is trying to tell me something.
I have this vague plan of redrafting a novel I wrote over the summer break at uni a couple of years ago, and attempting to self-publish it. The poor thing has been languishing on my hard drive ever since its brief publication on my livejournal at the time, and I really feel I owe it to the characters to bring it out, shake the dust off, and start showing it off to people.
Self-publishing both intrigues, intimidates, and horrifies me. I think it provides a fantastic platform for good writers to receive the acclaim and the rewards from their writing that they deserve. It allows them full control over what their book looks and sounds like, and how it’s presented to the world. The problem with this is that it also allows terrible writers the same.
I’m a snob about books. I always have been, and I suspect I always will be. I try to crush the urge to shout down bad books as much as possible, mostly for fear of offending people (which I have done, many times). The full-body cringe I experience when I overhear in public people talking about a truly horrendous book is excruciating, but I resist the urge to turn around and tell them exactly what’s wrong with their life choices. Everyone’s taste is different.
Anyway, I’m off the subject. I really want to put this book out there and start showing off my writing. But I know a lot of people avoid self-published novels for the reasons listed above, and I’m scared of putting it out there and everyone hating it. And then the final reason is that I’m just lazy and it would be brilliant if someone would just do the whole thing for me. But I’ve been trying to teach myself to be more driven lately, especially when it comes to writing. Perhaps this could form my graduating exam in self-discipline.