Cave woman in the information age

This morning someone encouraged me to blog about why I self-published my book. I'll tell you why.

After making a few attempts at writing a marketing piece, a proposal, and an author's bio, I had to step back and reflect.

Do I know what I'm doing? Am I any good at this? No. It makes me feel like an impostor, and that has nothing to do with self-esteem. I esteem myself just fine, I just don't think I do this marketing thing very well.

I think the reason for that is because I associate marketing with spin, and with lies, or at least half-truths. So what can I do? I can talk about my book, and why I wrote it, and what I was trying to accomplish from having written it. I know, you may be saying, but Marcella, that IS marketing.

OK. Granted. But the truth is I fear there will be rules to follow that I don't know about, and if I try this thing called marketing then it is clear to me that I will break ALL OF THEM.

Then I will be found out as the newbie, and that silly person who has that special blend of confidence and naivete that we call gumption--the kind where they pat you on the head and say, Aaww, how cute, you published a book all by yourself, aren't you a clever girl.

Good grief. See where this is going? It is already laughable, and I want to be a serious author, dag nab it!

So I'm going to step back again and see this from a distance. I live in a time in history that allows me access to certain miracles of mass communication. That's how I think of self-publishing. It is all very new to me. I am a completely self-taught participant. It has been a lot of work, but also a lot of fun. I have absolutely no background in traditional publishing and no contacts in that world. I wouldn't know where to begin the process of presenting myself to a publisher. I have no particular authority or expertise; I have no readership, no author platform. Approaching any publishing house, I would come armed only with a manuscript of unknown quality just like thousands and thousands before and after me.

It's not difficult to see how easily intimidation like that works within a single mind, let alone so many others who want to publish their work. The only difference is that I gave myself permission to do so. Yep. That's it. I just did it because I really, really wanted to. I have the same needs for self-expression as most people do. For me, self-publishing the book is just like that cave woman dipping her hand in red pigment and pressing her palm against the wall. Living in the information age just means not having to wait to be discovered by some wandering shepherd.

I'm willing to wait for all the souls wandering the internet.

Epigraphs and anticipation

As I eagerly await this Saturday's event, I'm on a continuous path of imposing organization to my physical environment. Just as I think entropy is going to overtake me, I come across a piece of paper on which I wrote something that I thought was important. Today's finding comes from the wonderful Barbara Ehrenreich:

Never wallow in your troubles; despair must be kept private and brief. This is typical advice, and I've tried to follow it as much as humanly possible. The drawback of being intelligent and well-informed is a dangerous inability to think your despair doesn't matter. Even if you come to the conclusion that ultimately you can do very little about it, you must still, at least, consider the source of it carefully enough to understand the real root.

This is from her autobiography, Living With a Wild God. I have since come across many other quoted sentences that didn't make their way into the book, thoughts from Dmitry Orlov, Chris Hedges, and so many more. It seems there is no end to all the things that might have made their way into the book. The endless process of picking and choosing what to include and how to weave it into the narrative kept me busy for two years.

Now with the launch of my book I'll have to construct conversations around why I did it and what the hell I thought would come of it. At least, I'll have to think about how I might like to answer some of the more typical questions that will arise. As with so many unanticipatable events, I'll probably just open my mouth and start expounding on whatever is forefront in my mind at the moment. I've been living this topic for so long it isn't difficult just to begin. Where it goes from there--Who knows?

There is a certain relaxation you can experience when you realize how worn down you are. Like an old river rock, you've been battered by the endless stream of water washing over you for so long, that now your edges are gone, the surfaces are smooth, you are perfect as an egg, naked, raw, and unmistakable. This is what I aspire to be.

I have no ulterior motives left. Sitting with a certain emotional honesty is all that matters in the end. No one's truth is greater than you're own. We show up so that we can stand in witness with others who are willing to be there with us and if we're lucky they'll say: Yeah, you know, I think I see your point. I still think I would have done it differently, but to each his own....

And so ends this stream of consciousness for today.