Being an author it's easy, earning a living from writing it is not.
Indie authors know this very well.
Some manage to sell many books, others become famous, and the rest... is the rest.
The rest do their best to not drown in a sea of failures.
Three years ago, to save my life, I made a solemn promise to the universe and myself.
I promised that I will invest everything I have in becoming a writer.
I wanted to be a writer since I was 8. I just turned 43.
Often I say that I dreamed of being a writer for all these years.
I lied.
I cannot dream, and I wish I can hope but right now I can't do that.
Like you, I am only human and sometimes I fall.
When that happens, I do not see the light at the end of the tunnel.
I fight, of course, but there are too many things to fight against.
My heart is racing, my hands are trembling and I am sweating cold because I have to go out and my mind doesn't want that.
My mind is the cruelest enemy I have in the universe.
I just published if not the worst, among the worst book ever written. A testament of forlorn hope.
The Heaviness of Breathing comprises the darkest thoughts of a hopeless author.
All pages are filled with devasting feelings and emotions that I have been trying to suppress for many years.
I know that nobody cares about others' struggles and I blame no one for this.
We all have a lot on our plates.
Our happiness is our responsibility, no one else's.
Nobody owes us anything, we are the masters of our destinies and right now, I am a puppet in the hands of the universe.
My tears bring me more tears, my worries bring me more worries, this is how the law of attraction works.
I know.
But right now I am tired and dishearted.
I can't even imagine how it feels to be okay because I am an aphantasic or aphant (not sure which one is the correct term).
My mind is blind and deaf.
More about aphantasia here.
Indie authors know this very well.
Some manage to sell many books, others become famous, and the rest... is the rest.
The rest do their best to not drown in a sea of failures.
Three years ago, to save my life, I made a solemn promise to the universe and myself.
I promised that I will invest everything I have in becoming a writer.
I wanted to be a writer since I was 8. I just turned 43.
Often I say that I dreamed of being a writer for all these years.
I lied.
I cannot dream, and I wish I can hope but right now I can't do that.
Like you, I am only human and sometimes I fall.
When that happens, I do not see the light at the end of the tunnel.
I fight, of course, but there are too many things to fight against.
My heart is racing, my hands are trembling and I am sweating cold because I have to go out and my mind doesn't want that.
My mind is the cruelest enemy I have in the universe.
I just published if not the worst, among the worst book ever written. A testament of forlorn hope.
The Heaviness of Breathing comprises the darkest thoughts of a hopeless author.
All pages are filled with devasting feelings and emotions that I have been trying to suppress for many years.
I know that nobody cares about others' struggles and I blame no one for this.
We all have a lot on our plates.
Our happiness is our responsibility, no one else's.
Nobody owes us anything, we are the masters of our destinies and right now, I am a puppet in the hands of the universe.
My tears bring me more tears, my worries bring me more worries, this is how the law of attraction works.
I know.
But right now I am tired and dishearted.
I can't even imagine how it feels to be okay because I am an aphantasic or aphant (not sure which one is the correct term).
My mind is blind and deaf.
More about aphantasia here.
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