Thread by @JohnnyRoedel

A thread on my experience of being an author.

As an author I thought I’d be jet setting around the globe talking with readers about how my book changed their life.

I imagined that my book would be so highly regarded that each copy would have to be handled with velvet gloves

My book was made to be a diva. It was going to have it’s own dressing room whenever we went on tour together.

Oprah would quickly become best friends with my book. They would set up a joint Instagram account that would captive the world.

I thought that when people would talk about my book they would say things like “Instant classic!” or “I want to buy the movie rights!” or“Here is some champagne!”

I was ready for my book to be anointed by the angels & considered sacred text. Like Rumi but cooler.

Instead...

I just used my book to scrape ice off of my windshield.

The only jet setting I do is in my 2003 Mountaineer (that has an engine that sounds like two seals having freaky sex)to local bookstores to grovel for a tiny space on a shelf where nobody will ever find it.

Turns out my book doesn’t need fancy gloves to hold it - unless the reader is concerned about getting paper cuts due to the shittacular production quality that comes from Amazon’s self-publishing printers.

My book makes a great paperweight for all the ridiculous tax paperwork I have to fill out on my $23 in royalties I received.

The only dressing room my book has is in a box that I schlep around to apologetically sell to people.

My book never became friends with Oprah. In fact she doesn’t even know it exists. In fact nobody knows my book exists because my marketing budget is equal to the price of generic Advil.

My book never became a diva. It’s more like a barfly looking for a one night stand.

When people talk to me about my book they say things like “It’s cute.” or “How fun.” or “What kind of discount can I get on it?” or “When are you going to get a real job?”

The truth is being a self-published author is much harder than I thought.

It’s lonely. It’s thankless. It’s discouraging. It’s tedious.

But I can’t stop.

I have all these words in me I have to get out. They drive me insane if I don’t. It’s like they are bees inside of me.

So, I’ll write until the bees are gone.

Fuck. I wish I would have been born with the skill set to be a plumber. I would have found that a little easier on my heart.

But I’m a writer. I show up and pour my heart out onto a page.

Then that page becomes a book.

And then....eventually that book becomes an ice scraper.

Sigh.