She persisted has become my mantra when it comes to this crazy writing thing I do.
When I check my lagging book sales and social media feels like I’m yelling into a void; I take a deep breath, turn on my laptop, and write another chapter. When the book reviews don’t magically appear, I tell myself that there are people reading the books even if they don’t leave a review behind. When I hear someone say that they don’t really have time to read or they don’t like reading at all, I shrug it off. I’ve visited the worlds and befriended the characters they’ll never know. When my own family congratulates me on publishing yet another book but never takes the time to read or share it, I sigh and give the people I love a pass. I write romance and the sex scenes probably make them uncomfortable.
Some days I persist out of sheer stubbornness, just a big f*ck you to the world at large. Some days I persist because I’m too afraid to admit that I’ve failed at the one thing I am really good at doing. Some days I have to remind myself that there are so many creative souls who come and go and who’s work is never appreciated — and yet, they managed to keep true to their creative voice. How could I do less?
When I had no money and wrote after a full day’s work, I persisted. Despite not knowing if my first book would be published or if it was all just an exercise in self-indulgence, I persisted.
When I’m depressed, I persist. When I’m frustrated, I persist. When it’s a struggle to string the sentences together, I persist.
Persisting makes me annoying for some people, but persisting has become a habit with me. It means that I’ll continue to put words on paper. It means the stories that take root in my mind will find their way into the world. And as long as I do that, then I’ll eventually reach the heart of the reader I’ve been writing for all this time.