It's a funny thing, finally being a published author with a book that seems to be doing well on Amazon. I should feel elated. Happy. Emotional. I just feel the last, and not in a good way. Perhaps because there is no physical book to grasp hold of and take a selfie with. (As if!) Amazon messed up publication day so it was not actually released until late in the afternoon. No one understood why; one of my mum's friends described herself as 'chewing the carpet' in frustration at not being able to download on the designated day. As for myself, the only way to cope with such disappointment was displacement activity. I finished another book, sent it to my agent and then got out my sewing machine and made a dress for my holiday. Garment making is such wonderful therapy when things get stressful. There is something about the soft feel of gorgeous fabric and the satisfaction of cutting out a series of shapes and then sewing them together to make something entirely new and unique that always does it for me. And I must have done good because my fashion-conscious teenaged daughter wants me to make one for her, with one proviso. That she can choose her own fabric.
Perhaps there is a metaphor there for writing. I desperately want everyone to like my book but at the same time know they won't. There will always be some for whom it is too realistic / not realistic enough, too thought-provoking / not thought-provoking enough... etc etc etc. So I also want everyone to like the dress I've made but know that many won't. It's off the shoulder, short, in a silver-grey fabric with delicate pink leaves. I think it's beautiful. But I know that there are many who would disagree.
I suppose that the moral of the story is, when we create, that we must create what works for us, be true to ourselves - and if no one else likes it, so be it.
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