I am fake-it-till-you-make-it-ing like crazy today. It’s the only way through. I don’t exactly want to call it impostor syndrome, but it’s a new way of defining myself, and I’m not entirely sure of it yet.
Technically, as of yesterday, I’m a published author now. I just have to resist the temptation to demur and dissemble, to shake my head and say “No, no, not really. Any fool can publish their own book, it’s so easy these days. It’s not like I have a contract with an actual publisher.” For one thing, many people don’t really understand the difference, and don’t care. For another, the difference really is becoming less important as self-publishing becomes more and more mainstream. For a third – I did the work, I really did write all those words – which still surprises me sometimes – and I put them all together and I fixed them up and then I formatted it all and uploaded it all in the tedious process that is submitting your book to the self-publishing machine.
I also paid real money for cover art and design. I have to confess that I didn’t pay real money, or even Monopoly money, for editing. I know the book could have been even better if I’d had it professionally edited, and as a professional editor myself that’s what I always tell people. But this is, when it comes down to it, a vanity project. I don’t expect to make any money off it, and I blew my budget on the cover instead. If I break even I’ll consider it a really great achievement. So I edited it myself, which is a terrible thing to do because it’s hard to take off your writer hat and put on your editor hat and read it as if you’ve never seen it before.
Then there’s the “It’s only a children’s book” self-put-down. A children’s book is also a real book. It’s 40,000 words long, so I think it counts. Someone told me today that it’s really hard to write for the 9-12 age group. I usually think of it as just channelling my inner immaturity, because it seems to come pretty naturally to me; but I’ll do my best to let myself take the compliment.
So there was this moment today when a friend posted my link to the book on Amazon in a Facebook group, and I realised that to anyone in that group who doesn’t know me personally, this is who I am now. I’m a person who writes books. And that therefore, it is the case that in real life I am a person who writes books – or at least, has written one, with aspirations to continue. It’s quite an adjustment, mentally, to think of myself that way, even though I’ve been doing this book-writing thing for quite a while now. I just haven’t been shouting about it, and now I have to shout about it – at least on social media – because that’s part of doing it.
That thing about the crack team of designers that my imaginary publisher would have provided me with – they would also have had a crack team of editors, from developmental to proofreading, and a crack PR team too, to publicize my book and send out press releases and all that jazz. Except, the way book publishing is going these days, authors who are signed even to very large and reputable publishing houses are expected to do a lot of their own – well, let’s call it “outreach”. And hey, I’m a top editor myself (in the vein of Bridget Jones’s “top, top people”), so all I have to do is get over myself and put the word out without being all sheepish and humble about it. Faking it like crazy.
And then I shall sit back and watch the pennies roll in. Maybe even two or three at a time.