I felt like such a fraud. I don’t think I’m an expert, but I do tend to think I’m better at internet-things than that.

You know how self-doubt always brings friends? I spent yesterday fighting in the ftp of my blog. While waiting for my client to do whatever I’d decided I needed to do this time, I wandered the internets looking for opportunities for non-annoying self-promotion. I found that despite my hopes (foolish, I know) the better-known places reviewing gay fiction are no more inclusive of self-publishing than their more traditional counterparts. I jumped into a few conversations in a site where I’ve been a member for over a year, and was completely ignored (the horror!) in half of them.

I started to wonder. I think I’d be an idiot not to be anxious about my self-publishing venture, but normally I can keep it under control. I am not, after all, risking my (non-existent) farm on it. I’m taking a chance to make my life bigger, but I’m not gambling anything but my belief that my books are worth reading.

It was that belief that came under fire yesterday. With writers–at least with this writer–in the end, it all comes back to the writing. I didn’t jump into conversations pimping my book–I posted my thoughts on the topic of the thread. Did I say it badly? Did I repeat someone else, being too dense to see it? Why didn’t they like me?

The review sites–why are they excluding people? Gays know how it hurts to be marginalized; why wouldn’t they even give me a chance? Why won’t they like me?

How could I even think of hoping people would look at my book and like it, if I couldn’t even get them to look at me?

Whine, whine. It was a day of whining. I’m better now, and able to realize that yesterday my pouty self was acting like a two-year-old.

Here’s what else I realized/remembered today:

• This book made a respected agent dither for a year before she decided not to represent it. Sure, she said no–but not until she thought about it for a year.
• This book was rejected by another agent because he didn’t think it would sell due to the genre. Same agent asked for any fantasy I had.
• This book was read in one sitting by a friend who “hates first-person” and hasn’t read any book in one sitting in quite some time.
• My books have kept people up all night.
• My books have made people late for their cousin’s wedding.
• My books have made people threaten me if I whine that I’m going to stop writing.
• Yes, most of the people who love my work are my friends–but many of them are my friends because they read and liked my writing, and reached out to me because of it.
• I’m not going to hit the NYT bestseller list, but I’m not aiming for it. Sell mega-numbers of an SF book featuring a gay main character who doesn’t die? Yeah, that would really be dreaming.
• I love what I write. I’d rather be moderately (or even not at all) successful sharing work I love than drive myself mad trying to write “the next Twilight.”

So here we are at today. My blog is fixed, and my writing is pretty good. The questions of “is my writing good enough?” and “Can I market what I write effectively?” remain to be answered–but that’s about where we were before I broke my blog, so I’m okay with that.

Guys. Seriously. Glenn Beck? Rush Limbaugh? It’s entertainment. It’s shock-jocks in politics. Like Geraldo and Jerry Springer, they don’t say it because it’s true, they say it to get you to watch.

And this crap is tearing our country apart. How many of you really believe it’s okay to yell “faggot” at a gay man who doesn’t agree with you, or “nigger” at a black man voting his conscience?

Seriously, do you think that’s okay?

Like pornography, like FML, like I Can Has Cheezburger, a person’s choice in entertainment affects them in ways they probably don’t even notice and certainly never intended. Try it. Spend some time on I Can Has Cheezburger and see if you don’t start thinking in LOLspeak.

It’s time to come back now. Come on. Let’s talk again. I’ll make you tea if you promise not to throw it at me. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

Also, the wordcount graph lies. As all the others I could have chosen say, I have 10,225 words. That’s the widget I want, though, so I’m hoping it’ll straighten itself out. If not, I’ll change to one of the others tomorrow. Or…soon, anyway. My lead is slowly vanishing, and now I have a sinus headache!

Also, the Flying Spaghetti Monster seems to have touched my NaNovel with his Noodly Appendage, what?

So. Day 8 (I know because I first complained of my cold in my blog on the 19th) (yes, I use my blog to remember things) of Misery. Before that I dimly remember a couple days of sore throat, but we’ll go with day 8.

Things I’ve learned (again): lotion-infused facial tissue is worth the price. Drink lots of liquids, but milk is a bad idea. NyQuil may be my friend, but DayQuil does not like me. Nothing works consistently. (The Mucinex I swore by last cold? Barely touched this one. And the nasal spray I bought and almost tossed ’cause it didn’t work is enabling me to breathe today.) The kid can survive quite happily on PB&J. Sleep is precious. When my brain is drowning in snot (sorry) all bets are off.

The last few days have been better, if we remember that all is relative. My brain works a bit. Enough that I dare to edit, though when I wander off to check on Zeke’s father’s name, I’ll probably have forgotten what I was looking for by the time I open the correct file. (If I open the correct file.) Because of that I try not to wander off, but the old memory doesn’t remember that choice very well either.

So anyway. Still alive. Still trying to edit. Onward.

Fidelis? Not being written. Dunno why. I know what I want to do, can’t seem to get it done.

Work? Not starting till two days after I thought. So my best guess of “yeah, looks like I’ll have enough paycheck to pay bills?” Yeah.

Editing? Still trying. If I can get Joss done in the next week, I will have done something with my summer. Editing one (1) of several novels I meant to do, and swimming every day till the car died. Did I lose any weight? Not so much as a pound, it seems.

Sigh.

163/458 on the way to Rivendell. Not that it matters now.

Maybe if I bought a bike…