A Walk on the Wild Side...
by Heather Kizewski
(Amherst, WI)
Swimming With Wildcats
Ever since I was in elementary school, I have written.
In grade school, I'd usually write little story books. In fact, I even had a series that I titled, "The World of Lori." I had a thing with the name Lori and so I wrote about all the things this imaginary girl was up to. Usually just mundane things in life - nothing too exciting. Things like fighting with her younger brother, getting a hamster for her birthday, painting the backyard fence, etc.
I'd fold blank pieces of paper into a book format and I'd write the stories and even illustrated them, too.
As I got into Junior High and High School I journaled. Constantly. I had a journal for every year of my life from the time I was twelve until I was twenty-four, which is when my daughter's baby book became my place of journaling. Which looking back, I'm glad. My journals are like looking through pictures; only they are images that could never be captured with a camera.
In my late twenties I traveled extensively and journaled every chance I got. I wrote down everything from what I was eating, what it smelled like outside, what color socks I had on, if I had brushed my teeth yet, and so on and so forth.
But throughout all these years of writing, it never occured to me that I wanted to be a 'writer.' Maybe because that's what I already was. We usually don't aspire to be what we already are, do we?
Well then one day when I was thirty-one, I bought another new journal. I had been going through some turbulence with a few catty women in my life and I began to journal about my experiences throughout grade school, junior high, high school, and beyond.
Wow.
Things came out in my writing that I never would have expected. Memories came seemingly from out of no where. I found myself laughing and crying a lot. It seemed as though the more I wrote, the more that came back into my memory.
Some situations I never wanted to think about ever again, yet alone verbally journey down those roads. But I had to. I had to shake hands with the skeletons before I could dance peacefully with their ghosts.
And along with it came clarity.
But then suddenly I realized that someone else might relate to my experiences. Someone else could even benefit from some of the insight that I wish I would have had years back.
This is where my road to self-publishing began.
I didn't care at all about recognition, fame, fortune, or any other form of ego stroking. In fact, I was naive to the stigma of independently publishing my work. Looking back, I thank God for that 'ignorance.'
I did have to step back and scratch my head a time or two regarding the concept of words like 'vanity press' and other stigmas that pertained to self-publishing being an ego trip for the writer, because in my mind, it seemed to be just the opposite.
To me, it seemed egotistical not to be willing to 'go so low' (as it had once been said by a fellow writer's forum acquaintance of mine).
A 'wanna-be writer' was one stigma in particular that made me blink my eyes out of disbelief because...what? A wanna-be writer?
Please.
My goal was to humanize other people with my experiences. I wrote very candidly. I did not 'tip-toe' around any issues or my outlooks on life which was very scary, especially considering our lives usually interwine with many others who may or may not still be a part of our world, or even our social circles.
It was one thing to write about my experiences, it was one thing to say I was going to publish, and it was another to invest in the process, but to actually put my life story out there was a manic realm of which nothing could have prepared me for.
I oscillated from excitement to fear, from confidence to fear...and to fleeting moments of "Oh my god, what did I do?"
I'm glad that I pushed myself through the fear because my goals have been reached time and time again through feedback and reviews from people who say it motivated them or that it struck an inner chord in some way.
The greatest part of self-publishing is that I have complete control. I am in the process of adding an epilogue and making some revisions throughout my book, which is something that if (that is a big if) I'd have been able to find a main-stream publisher, is something I'd have never been able to do.
No matter what publishing route you choose, as an author, you have to promote your book. There's no easy way around it. And I've never sought out writing as a way to gain profit or recognition. I write because I don't have a choice. It comes from somewhere else within my presence. Really. I don't think it's a choice I make; it's something that I just do, and always have done from the time I was physically/mentally able to put words on paper.
If someone would have said to me that I wouldn't sell a single copy, I'd have still chosen the publishing route that I have. The time and money that I've invested in the process is probably no more than spending years and years seeking an agent and sending out manuscripts, and still only having the minute chance of getting your story out there.
I'm close to completing my second book and will again publish through Authorhouse. I feel very comfortable with the process, and I look at any costs involved as merely an investment...and really, what is the difference between creating quilts or pottery (both take time and money) and hand selling them?
There are many types of art that I could use as an example for the point I'm trying to make, but the bottom line is that self-publishing a book is no different. It all depends on what lies beneath the passion and aspiration. If it's fame and fortune that one is seeking then no, I wouldn't recommend this route. But if you have a story to tell and a burning desire that sparks from with inside your bones, then this is an excellent path to take and will most likely be rewarding and worthwhile.
When looking 'non-naively' at the various publishing routes, this one still makes the most sense to me. And maybe someday that will change, but for now I'm more than satisfied with my choice.
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