Lately, I’ve discovered some downright mean people in the indie author world and readers in general. Pompous, self-righteous reviewers, and disloyalty abounds among members of this said community. People with a curious notion of power and self-importance. Unfortunately, people such as these are found everywhere. The workplace, neighbors, and sometimes in your family.
Bumping into these kinds of people is a hazard of being an author. As an author, I am open to criticism both good and bad and have no power in that arena. But I do have power in a very important arena. My writing. The power of the word. The power of expression. My art. My humanity. It gives me great solace to create. To get lost in the process of writing. To feel satisfied at the completion of a project and to say, “Job well done!” To myself, for myself. If I am proud of my work, that is enough. If I have given my best, that is the magic. What care I what others think? Buy the book, or don’t buy the book. I have no masters as an indie author. No one is threatening me to give back an advance. It is my world. My words. My joy.
I choose to surround myself with decent, honest souls. Writing for my own pleasure. If I touch someone else with my work, if another human being “gets” me that is a good feeling.
But it is not my bliss. My bliss pushes me to write, and write, and write, and…
