We all fail. It seems too often to be a criteria of life in general. We make plans; we break plans. We wish to make plans; we fail to even start. We try to write the next great American sci-fi saga, we fail. Or at least I failed (so far).
Life is a series of failures and successes. We celebrate the successes; we fear the failures. I know that as a self-published or indie writer, I fear the failure that is following me right now: obscurity. Obscurity means dribbling (or non-existent) sales and a general lack of people even seeing my work. I mean, I don’t believe that I am even getting to the point that people see my books, but just opt not to read them. I can only dream of that.
Like my wife says to me, it would be nice to see my books for sale in used book stores, or donations, because it means that I am known, that I am selling books.
And that speaks to something about failure that is far more poignant than my wife probably realizes.
Failure can often equal success. Or even a little more obscure, it can surpass success, meaning that it can be better than success alone. Seems weird, I know. I am still trying to convince myself of this very concept. It all lies in how one views it.
Failure is only bad if there is no effort made to learn from it. It’s a question that I’ve been asking myself a lot lately: what are you doing about it?
Well, what am I doing about it?
Not enough. That’s the hard truth I had to face lately regarding my writing. I am not doing nearly enough. Consistency is one of my biggest problems. Even on this site, I post, but not regularly. Not consistent. Topics are mostly sporadic, although tending more towards writing. Then there’s my habits in writing itself.
Failing to make it wouldn’t be bad if it wasn’t for my lack of consistent effort. But then again, I’ve been learning a lot about myself, about my writing, about my goals. Does that mean this failing thing is so bad after all?
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