I like happy endings. I don’t mean just orgasms for me. I like stories that end well. It turns out that I may like them too much–no, not the orgasms, the other ones. I’ve been working on a book for some time. It’s got nothing to do with chastity or spanking. It’s a sort of fairy tale where a woman has her dream come true. I resist adding obstacles in her path. I want everything to go right from the beginning to end.
Yeah, I realize that doesn’t work. All sunshine and buttercups are boring. It’s just that every time I set up something bad, I rush to have her overcome it. Dull, dull, dull! I’ve given my draft to a few people to read. Mrs. Lion liked the story. Another beta reader has a long list of suggestions. She likes the story but thinks I need to make things harder for my protagonist. I haven’t heard back from the third reader yet.
I’m discouraged because I felt good about balancing good and bad in the story. One agent asked for the full manuscript and rejected it without comment. Maybe writing isn’t what I should be doing. At least perhaps I should give up on writing commercial fiction. I know I can write hot porn. The problem is that I have no idea how to sell it.
The problem with being an unknown (in the book world) writer is that I have no way to let people see my work. If I self-publish, nobody will discover the novel exists. Advertising is too expensive for me. PR takes a skill set that I don’t possess. Since I don’t have anything better to do, I keep making my story better. That sounds like a good thing. I don’t think it’s healthy for me. I’m getting discouraged.
It feels like I can’t do anything right. Do I keep revising? Do I try to find something less demanding? I have to keep trying until I run out of energy and self-confidence. The only question is whether I will succeed before my tank is dry.