There are days when I’m grateful Amazon doesn’t tell me specifically who has bought my book and who hasn’t.
If they did, I would be heartbroken when I read the list and noticed all the important names in my life were not on my list of customers.
Siblings.
Extended family.
People I’m dating.
Best friends.
Mortal enemies who watch every story and follow every juicy piece of gossip.
There wouldn’t be a single one of their names on the list. Well, maybe one or two, but I can count the number of book sales I’ve made from my nearest and dearest on one hand.
That’s just one reaction to me writing a book.
People I knew well have laughed at me when I said I wanted to self-publish a book. Raw, unapologetic ridicule came flooding in as I described my grand plans to write.
To make matters worse, those who haven’t understood my professional quest have tried to sabotage me.
It’s not enough to disagree, it would seem.
I’ve stuffed things up on my own without their contribution. I’ve lost money, I’ve put money towards ideas that…