Maybe my writing sucks. Maybe it's that simple. Maybe my writing is trite and boring. I must pose this question if I'm to be rigorously honest: Am I that bad? My books, are they not worth reading? They don't sell. Not even a little. They just don't sell. I did some marketing. I won an award and a beautiful review from Writer's Digest. I was reviewed numerous times, and reader response glowed with love. It didn't help.
Has this huge effort been my escapist fantasy?
I don't accept that idea. But I wouldn't, would I? Otherwise how did I put in the decades of practice, the repetition, the rejection? A compelling artist needs to work at the craft passionately and beyond reason. A hundred drafts of one page? I've done that as a matter of routine. I've re-written each of my books five times, ten? I've lost count.
This epic failure is a case of falling through the cracks. I may be the Van Gogh of modern writers. If you thirst for vivid emotion and wild color, it's there in my stories. The catalog of books on Amazon is bloated by a million titles. Why should anyone pay three bucks to download a bit of my life's work? How do I get the attention of readers, of my natural audience?
My books are wonderful books. If you value originality, skill, vision and perception, you should read what I've written. Read "Confessions Of An Honest Man". It's my autobiographical novel. When my book placed in their competition, the editor from Writer's Digest wrote "I don't usually read this kind of book but I feel better for having read it. I will carry this novel with me for a long time."
Read any of my books. If you get bored, you're not my audience. I write for artists, therapists and their clients, boomers who used acid, the curious, the addicted, the recovering, the failed, the intelligent and the sensitive ones...and I don't suck. In my modest human way, I'm glorious.
"Confessions Of An Honest Man:" the link. Confessions Of An Honest Man
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