I’m not an award-winning writer.
Nor am I a best-selling author.
And sometimes, I feel like I’m in the minority.
Social Media platforms, online bookstores and mega-sellers like Amazon, act as quintessential gathering places for award-winning, best-selling authors—thousands upon thousands of them, none of whom I’ve ever heard of.
I often wonder, who is bestowing these awards?
And what constitutes ‘best-selling’?
Not that I’m bitter, or cynical. I’m not.
To my credit, I have a trophy-shelf full of Blogging Awards in my repertoire, including one I created and shamelessly bestowed upon myself. But I don’t think those count.
My lack of commercial (writing) success is the direct result of a myriad of intertwined perplexities; a multifaceted delusionary pyramid of excuses, not least of which, is my tendency to procrastinate.
I take full responsibility for my Amazon Author ranking.
To keep myself honest however, I hammer out the occasional (and lately sporadic) blog post, more so to fulfill my obligation as a member of the WGI (Writer’s Guild of the Internet). After all, you can’t risk being turfed from such a prestigious institution as the one I just made up.
Too much is at stake.
So I plod along. Jotting notes into my iPhone, brainstorming in between Netflix episodes, promising myself that tomorrow is the day.
Or perhaps the tomorrow after that.
Successful authors on the other hand, put in the hours. They sweat, strain and spew—day-in, day-out, glued to their computer screens, hammering out prose by the yarn-full, unrelenting, unyielding and undeterred.
They deal with uncertainty, self-doubt and criticism, and yet they overcome.
They continue to write.
Because they found the answer.
The magic elixir of success.
And when they reach ‘The End’, there is no day-off for a celebratory fiesta, no siesta, no hiatus.
Back-to-work legislation kicks in.
On to the next project.
That’s how it’s done.
Until next time,