Last night I sat in the offices of Emu Ink with its founder Emer Cleary, having a conversation about my self-publishing project. For a couple of weeks I’d had a question rolling around in my head but had been too afraid to ask. Last night, I just went for it.
“You wouldn’t let me do this if the stories were rubbish would you?”
I had to ask her – I couldn’t bear the constant inner monologue anymore….
This woman has business to run and cannot afford to turn down clients, but surely she has a reputation to uphold. She can’t just put her name to any old scribblings… can she? I’ve only been doing this for a year. Don’t I have to ‘serve my time’? I’m indulging myself by barging past the patient folk who are waiting to be discovered – pushing my way to the front of the queue like a literary version of Verruca Salts.
I want a booooook, I want a no-vel…
I want to hang with the famous and arty; have twenty launch parties,
Give it to me now!
(Yes my inner monologue is actually a musical! How COOL is that!? 😀 )
Emer was very encouraging and (of course) does take the reputation of her company seriously. She reassured me that the stories are good and that in her professional opinion, the book is worth publishing.
But I’m still waiting for ‘someone in charge’ to tell me I’m not allowed to do this…
Thinking about it again today, I was reassured by one thought.
I didn’t start writing, to write a book. I started writing cos it felt like the most natural thing in the world to do. For about 5 years it was non fiction, then I started to make stuff up and once I started I couldn’t stop. The stories just keep coming. There are the writer’s block days, and the editing headaches, and crises of confidence and all that; but now that I’ve started I can’t stop writing stories.
If they happen to be good, if they happen to be liked, if they happen to be popular – well then fantastic.
I won’t complain.
But I write cos… erm,… well… I am a writer.
Now if you’ll excuse me… I have a golden ticket to find.