I finished one of the rewrites on the novel, the biggest single thing I had to do to it. It feels good; I feel close to being done.
It's hard not to freak out.
I'm going to be putting my stuff out there soon. Without the gatekeepers.
It's scary. And exciting.
It's a risk. I know the novel is good. It might be really good. It might well be good enough for a big agent, a big contract. I think it is. But without submitting it to the gatekeepers, how do you know?
And yet, I'm not going to.
For years I dreamed of getting published by a big publisher. I dreamed of the big advance, the contract, of seeing my book on a bookstore shelf. And now I'm turning my back on all that, and taking a book that might well be worth a five-figure advance and publishing it online for roughly $3.50 gross, each. Doing my own marketing. Investing in editing and cover art and classes on how to format. I could easily lose money on the deal.
But I'm still going to do it myself.
I believe in my work. I believe the audience is out there. I believe I can find them.
Maybe I'm wrong. But at least, if my venture fails, it won't be anyone's fault but mine. And I'll be free to try again, and again, and again.
And I will. No one can stop me but me.