Having faith in anything is a bit like taking a plunge from a 40-story building and watching the ground become larger and larger, all the while believing those invisible wings on your back will start flapping any moment.
I’ve been faithless for a while. I’m sure the affliction hits everyone once or twice in their lives, if not more often than that. It’s easy to only see the bad when it seems to so outweigh the good.
I’m not saying my life isn’t full of amazing things. A semi-supportive family, a wonderful husband-to-be, a dog who is my soulmate, published novels, steady paycheck…these are all things that I’m lucky to have. Many people don’t have one, two, or any of these things to help them get through the day.
So, why do I focus on the bad so easily? Sure, I’ve got six published books, but they aren’t selling. I’m selling LESS this July than I did last July–and that’s not how the Bell curve is supposed to work for a published author. I had three published books last July; I have double that now. Ideally, I should at least be selling twice what I sold last year. Alas, this is not to be. There is no rhyme or reason as to why; I’m just not successful.
Sure, I’ve got a full-time job that pays the bills, but it’s slowly sucking the life from me because I want SO BAD to be a full-time writer instead. Working third shift is killing me with each passing day. I feel groggy and disoriented for most of my waking moments, because the human body isn’t meant to be awake at night and sleep during the day. Don’t get me started on how freaking loud the neighbors are while I’m sleeping.
Sure, I have a steady paycheck and financial security NOW, but my past choices have ruined any chance I have of buying my dream home. I’ve been denied by several banks outright, and the others have told me they can’t offer me pre-approval for this house I want. I’m sick of hearing “There are other houses out there, it wasn’t meant to be, etc.” This place FELT LIKE MINE. There is an invisible string between my heart and that house, and it tugs at me every time I think of it. There were many signs that the house was meant to be mine; yet because I’m a fucking idiot, I can’t have it. I wish I hadn’t made so many bad decisions in my life. I’d give anything to change the path that drove me to Nashville, where I debted my life away. Losing the opportunity to own my dream home has been an even worse blow to my already faithless life.
I am schooled by friends and family to be patient. Wait. Have faith. My books will take off, I will be a full-time writer. This is great advice on the surface, but I’ve already waited an entire year, so for a girl wishing her dreams would come true, waiting longer seems a lifetime. It’s hard to believe dreams can come true when you just no longer believe in anything.
I hit my one year anniversary at the end of June. Crazy that I published The Temple over a year ago. I didn’t get to properly celebrate–too damn busy with formatting and trying to finish a book. I added up all my numbers (and then managed to lose the piece of paper). In the year I’ve been published, I averaged about 5 books a day for a total around 2000– the average is misleading though. I sold the majority that over Jan-March.
So, yeah. I’m a mess. A mass of self-loathing and hatred, unsure even of who I am anymore. As I sink deeper into this ridiculous funk, I’m turning more and more to writing. I’m nearly done with a book — The House. It’s going to my editor first week of August.
I don’t even have an eloquent ending for this post other than, woot, back to work.