A fellow writer and online friend wrote a great blog entry about whether or not we should aspire to publish our stories. She took up the stance of no; don’t attempt to publish. Don’t chase the fame and money that only happens to a very few. Don’t let some corporate minion edit the voice and the message from your words.
Before I wrote my true response, which was to take up the opposite point of view, I had to admit I do understand the desire to write and not be published. I really do, even though I crave publication myself. I dance for the joy of it. I have since I was a young girl that thought boys had cooties. It was a passion unlike any other through my ‘coming of age years’. Yet, I never wanted to be in a music video or on stage performing Cats.
I do want to publish (but I abhor “resolutions” to do so, which was what sparked her concern). I don’t want publication for the money or the glory, because she was absolutely right when she said there are only a small number that make it as big as Stephen King. (She said King, I say Koontz. It’s a long standing debate between me and my best friend too).
So why, if I acknowledge the pitfalls, do I still strive for that spot on the bookshelf?
I do it because I have a story to tell and I want to share it with as many (or as little) people as are willing to listen.
I do it because so many authors have given me the joy of an amazing story that I can’t put down until I’ve read every page.
I do it because I’m a lame-o introvert and my characters are my way of stepping out into the world.
If I get published it and make money at it I will be thrilled of course. I will also be doing so with a pen name and I will guard my privacy with wicked daggers and starving, vicious dogs. I don’t want the attention. I only want to share the voices in my head. They insist on being heard.