Can I Call Myself a Writer Yet? Part Two #writerslife #directfromauthor

Can I Call Myself a Writer Yet?

Part Two

Some time back I wrote this post on calling myself a writer. Getting up the courage to do that? It isn't easy. But calling myself a writer is not the only pitfall or stumbling block in this career. (Because once I put that on my income taxes…that's what it became. A Career. Not a hobby or a pastime… Pardon me I have to pause to let that sink in. I am a self-employed writer.)

*gulps coffee* Some time ago, I began to self-publish some of my work. There were many deciding factors in this, and I don't mind admitting that some of them were financial. You see, along with calling myself a writer came the necessity of making writing pay for my living expenses. So I had to make money not just create art.

*sighs* I know. I'm crass. I've desecrated sacred art. I should starve for my stories… But I like food too much for that.

Art for art's sake. It's an interesting concept. I've no doubt that if people suddenly stopped buying, and I had to get an "evil day job" like so many other authors, I'd still write. But that doesn't mean I wouldn't rather be able to pay my way doing something I love. Putting a price on my work has always been one of the most difficult aspects of writing. I do believe that I deserve to be paid for my efforts. But how much? Should I compare the price of an hour or two of entertainment to the cost of a cup of fancy coffee? Or to an hour of television or a movie that you rent? Should it all be free so that as many people as possible might enjoy?

Right. Tell that to the dentist who fixes my teeth, the doctors who cure my illnesses and the grocers who supply my food.

They should do that out of the goodness of their hearts? The farmers throw their hearts and souls into producing a crop, and getting it to market. They don't let beautiful produce languish and rot on the vine.

Dentists, lawyers, doctors, farmers, all create a product or provide a service. And they are recompensed for that at rates they set. You have the option of saying, yeah that's too costly for a root canal. Or I'm not paying four dollars a pound for hamburger, and taking your business elsewhere.

The same is true with writers.

We write. We put our whole selves into a piece of work that consumes hours, days or even months of our time. And from all this effort emerges a thing. A story. A bit of entertainment for our readers.

But it's not free. It comes at a cost.

So, recouping that cost has to be a part of our writing paradigm. NOT ALWAYS. Sometimes, we write things as gifts, for our readers and fans. Free stories that we give willingly as rewards for loyal readers, or to entice new readers into sampling our wares. I have plenty of free stories, some perma-free, some free only at certain venues, and some free in regularly scheduled promotional events.

In order to call myself a writer, I have to make sufficient money writing that I don't need a second job. So, I self-publish some works because of the math.

A publisher- and e-book publishers are much more generous than traditional paperback publishers- will generally give an author 30-45% in royalties on books sold. That's after the vendors take their cuts. Amazon only pays 70% royalties on books priced at 2.99 and over. Below that price point, you get 35%. Pardon me, the publisher gets 35%. All Romance pays 60%. Smashwords pays more.

So follow the money.

Let's talk Amazon because they're the biggest e-book market. That 2.99 book with a publishing house will pay the publisher 2.09 per copy sold. Of that, the author receives 0.84. 84¢ per copy sold. Now, if the publisher prices your work at… say 1.99, putting you below that 70% rate right out of the gate?

At $1.99, the publisher makes 0.70 cents a copy. The author makes 0.28.

TWENTY-EIGHT CENTS A COPY.

At $0.99, the publisher makes 0.35 per copy. The author makes 0.14.

FOURTEEN CENTS.

Self-publishing buys more bread on the table, electricity to run the computers, gas in the car and health care than working with a publishing house.

You'll notice in the coming days that I have added a new option when purchasing my work. It's a Direct From Author Link.

Don't be afraid of this link. It's a Payhip link that takes you to a book page. I admit, it's not the sleek and pretty page that Amazon and ARe offer. It's succinct and to the point.

Payhip is a service offered by PayPal that allows authors to sell e-books online without going through a third party vendor like Amazon, All Romance, and Smashwords. What you're purchasing is the exact same product that is available at All Romance, Amazon and Smashwords. It was edited by the same fabulous editor, the cover was designed by the same talented artist, the story is identical.

The difference is, Payhip takes 5% of the sales and gives the author 95%.

And it’s the same secure, trusted Paypal system of payment that many of us use every day.

Currently, I have two books with Payhip links, but I do plan to eventually get all of my work up there.

The Librarian

Buy eBook

With a name like Valentine Michaels, he could have been 
anything. A rockstar, a super spy...
a hairdresser. 

Pulp Friction 2015

Jack of Spades #1

Drawing Dead

Buy eBook

In a world where mythical beings are real, love is still the most elusive… and treacherous myth of them all.

I'm not going to tell my readers where to buy my books- I'm still thrilled as heck that you all seem to enjoy my work at all, but if you want to try the Payhip service, I'd be interested in hearing how the experience was from your perspective. 

Am I a Writer Yet?

When Can I Call Myself a Writer?

Whilst drinking coffee this morning,  I stumbled over this article: http://thoughtcatalog.com/ryan-holiday/2014/06/can-you-call-yourself-a-writer/

And I began to wonder … (Yes, yes, I realize that I was procrastinating.)

For many years now I've called myself a writer. I have always secretly wanted to be a writer. In seventh grade I wrote a short Halloween story for the school newsletter. I followed that with a Christmas story. Then nothing. I wrote essays and read obsessively. I wrote poetry- most of it pretty bad. When I went to college I studied English and Composition, and the very first elective course I ever signed on for was creative writing, in which I learned that I knew nothing.

Which was fine. College for me consisted a great deal of learning that all the myths I'd convinced myself were true in high school were false. My parents were smarter than I was. They had

it right. Earning money writing – enough to support myself—wasn't going to happen. The world wasn't a black and white place. Shades of grey were real. Republicans had some good ideas, so did Democrats.

I earned a degree in education and put my writing dreams on the back shelf. I forced myself to be content with writing unique essays, and supporting myself.

Bah.

I read great books and I envied the people who could send me soaring to new dimensions and new worlds with their characters and settings. I gorged on mysteries and romances and fantasies, and I went to work and supported myself.

I graded essays and corrected grammar and tried to encourage young minds to think great thoughts in a logical manner.

And I won't say that I withered and shriveled, out of my element. I was a damned good teacher and I still receive emails and calls from former students saying thank you… you taught me to write and I just got into Harvard, or I got my PhD, or I'm getting married on Saturday and I wrote my own vows.

But one day, I stopped supporting myself and moved to the country. I had a whole new life, outside the city, without the pressure of work, and it took me a while to relax and recover. I soaked in the slower pace, the more earthy pursuits, the less stressful environment.

And one day, as I drove across country, a story unfolded in my head. I remembered that

sensation. That wonderful, enthralling, eagerness when you tell yourself a story…when you meet people who live in your head for the very first time and the outside world turns gray and the inner world bursts into vibrant, ultra-rich color.

Mack and Lex told me their story from beginning to end in an eight hour drive from the east coast to middle America, misunderstandings and conflicting plans, what they liked to wear and eat. The things – the insecurities— that stood in their way, that prevented them from being one hundred percent together and invested in each other.

Oh. This wasn't a mystery or the great American novel I'd fantasized about writing in my teen years.

Oh no.

This was…romance. In a form that didn't even exist when I was a kid.

This was a short story- about two men falling in love and figuring out how to be together.

It wasn't literary.

I couldn't do this.

But I couldn't shake it either.

When I got home, I went to bed and I told myself my story again, fine tuning bits of it as I drifted off to sleep. And when I woke… I made the coffee, sent the SO off to work, and I sat down at my computer and I started typing.

That was how I spent August of 2010. Typing my story. Fixing my typos. Proofing and rewording and making it shine. And researching. I knew my story wasn't what traditional big six publishers were looking for. It was too short for one thing. And too Gay for another.

I made a list of eBook publishers – much more gay friendly than the Big 6—and I studied their guidelines on submissions. (*eye roll* Now there's a discussion topic for another day.) I carefully packaged up my baby and sent a query to the first publisher on my list, then I sat back and waited. And while I waited, another story came to life. I started work on that story, getting it on paper, figuring out how to make it work.

I didn’t call myself a writer yet.

Even though I spent a good six hours a day actually typing and a great deal more time networking and building an author presence on line, and learning about the world of writing, I didn't call myself a writer.

Then I got my first rejection on my first story. A milestone. It was kind and helpful and very detailed.

I set aside my current projects and started revising my first story. I made it more active, intensified the conflict, and I finished my second story.

I had two completed novellas, and I'd learned that the 21^st century had something called self-publishing. Alternatives. I had choices. And I had two perfect vehicles for exploring those choices.

I took my second story, and I submitted it to a publishing house that specialized in eBooks and judging from their catalogue of offerings, did quite well with gay romance. The other, I decided to self-publish. I would conduct a grand experiment, I told myself, to see which method of publishing suited me better. I self-published one book and sat back to wait on word from the publisher about the other.

And I started my next book.

And I still didn't call myself a writer.

Self-published books didn't really count, did they? That fact was hammered home to me by a casual Facebook friend who asked in private chat, "Well, what was wrong with your first book that you had to self-publish it?" OUCH! Yeah, not a writer yet.

In November of 2010, I sent book #3 off to a different publisher, because the publisher who had book #2 wasn't very speedy in their decision making process. By December I had a contract for book #3 from the publisher and five finished manuscripts plus one self-published piece.

Could I call myself a writer then?

Fast forward four years. I call myself a writer today. I have written over 50 short novellas and short stories. Roughly half are self-published, and half with publishing houses. When did I make the change from "not-a-writer" to "writer"?

I don't honestly know. I know that writing has changed from fun to work to fun and back again a hundred times in the last four years. I am either swimming in self-doubt and hate every word or patting myself on the back for my sheer genius. Sometimes in rapid succession over the same bloody sentence.

Such is the life of a writer. We soar on wings of inspiration and belly crawl through pits of despair, sometimes before we finish that first pot of coffee.

We don't need someone else telling us when we can have the title. Some of us are born with it, some of us earn it, and some of us wear it awkwardly, questioning its fit for our humble efforts. When you're a writer? You'll know it. Most important of all, just keep writing. Write bad poetry, and insightful essays, write blog posts and 144 character tweets. Write short stories and flash fiction and novellas or whatever floats your boat.

Because that's the one thing you have to do in order to call yourself a writer.

You have to write.

That is all.

Write.

Who cares what you call yourself?

Write.

Who cares what other people call you?

Write.