Let’s say ten years ago I went to medical school. To become a brain surgeon.

Well, ten years later, most likely I’d be a brain surgeon.

Or a special forces merc bent on revenge?

Ten years later, I’d have my revenge and a story to tell.

Ten years later, in my writing career, I have three published books, a contract for six more, an award, some short stories, and fifteen minutes of fame on Amazon as a dubious bestseller.

My publishing business is not self-supportive.

If I had to rely on my writing to pay the bills, I would be living in Quincy J. Allen’s basement, eating all of his bearclaws and smoking all of his cigars.

I really thought I could smooze my way to the top. I have good friends who are agents and editors, but they have all said they will do anything for my career. Except, I can’t give them a book they think they can sell. Well, dang, skippy, that is just depressing.

My Amazon ranking, is, um, even more depressing.

At times, I feel like people read my books and leave nice reviews to be nice. Behind my back, they are saying, “Poor Aaron. He tries hard. But he’s just not there yet. Yes, I’ll go to his dumb book launch party, and yes, I’ll buy a book, but when is he going to learn?”

I just wrote a story where that’s what the people say about an artist, struggling to break out. Even worse, the artist’s little sister, who may or may not be real, says the same thing. The artist is Big Sue. The sister is Little Say. Because she doesn’t have much to say. Only the same thing, over and over.

When are you going to give up because this obviously is never going to work out for you?

I don’t have an agent. I’ve only been published in small houses. I’ve not received an advance. My work hasn’t been translated into a variety of exotic languages. I don’t have an audio book.

I was going to count exactly how many rejections I have, but I really want to get back to editing SASS MCQUEEN AND THE KUNG-FU PRINCESS! Aiiiiiiaa! So I’ll do a rough guestimate…

The Severed Earth = 3

The Storybook, the Turner Brothers, and Eli Kane = 1

Long Live the Suicide King = 5

Elizabeth’s Midnight = 20

Flung = 1

The September King = 1

The Never Prayer = 50

Sparked = 10

In Too Deep = 5

Dandelion Iron = 13

Various Short Stories = 25

That’s roughly 114 rejections. Of various shapes and sizes. It’s a million near misses. I’ve had big-time agents in closed rooms going over my work, arguing about its merits. And the answer? No.

In the grand scheme of things, this isn’t even really trying. It’s not. Ray Bradbury had something like eight hundred rejections before he published ANYTHING. Stephen King filled nails in and then spikes with his rejections. Kevin J. Anderson once won a contest among his writer friends because he had the most rejections. Not, like, by a little. By, like, hundreds if not thousands.

And notice, many of the books I’ve written and polished I didn’t query at all, or queried only once.

I could argue time. I could argue I had small children. I could argue that I wanted to perfect my craft. I could argue all of those things. The real answer?

I’m afraid. Not was afraid. Am afraid. I hate it. I don’t want to do it. And part of me, since I have my own Indie press, thinks I can be done with this. But that, for me, is a cowardly answer.

I have at least ten short stories, polished and ready, languishing in the dungeon of my computer. They are not being shopped. Nothing is going on there.

So on my writer’s retreat, we’ve been playing these massive board games at night, and when I play them, I don’t play to win. I play not to embarrass myself. I come up with little strategies, but it’s more for my own entertainment than anyone else. And so I don’t embarrass myself.

I’m playing the writing game the same way. Any little strategy I have is half-thought out and not something I truly embrace. Because in the end, I don’t really want to play the writing game. I want to write. And I have. And I will continue to write. I have a small set of fans who like my stuff. I like my book launch parties so I’ll continue to do them even if Steve and Melissa Jankowski are the only ones who show. And Tony Freeburg.

But the real game here is not the writing game. It’s my fear. It’s my thinking.

I like the idea of me being a tragic failure. I like the nihilism of the tragedy. I embrace it. I tell myself, over and over, that I am a B+ writer. Sure, I’m better than most. But the “A” club? Nope. Not me. Not ever me.

Not. Ever. Me.

So I either play to lose or I don’t play at all.

So in a very real, very economic sense, I have failed at the writing game. I have and continue to embarrass myself by trying.

Yes, I’ve had little successes, and we’ll talk about them tomorrow. Because notice, this is near the end of my week of reflection. This is the dark moment. For the sagging middle, check out my blog post yesterday about all the books I’ve read and written. Ha. No one read that mofo.

So this is the dark moment. This is the time of tragedy. I will gnash my teeth in the darkness.

But if I don’t change my thinking, I might not quit writing, but I will continue to embrace the tragedy of my failures with relish and ignore my successes. This will lead to my eventual obliteration.

If I don’t change my thinking, I will continue to fail because I like it. And I do things I like. I’m funny that way.

A little story. Chris LeDoux is a country music singer who spent his youth on the rodeo circuit. He won a huge reward, and he did well, but he was also a singer-songwriter. So he started recording his songs and selling them independently at rodeos. He did this for twenty years.

And guess who would buy them? Garth Brooks. And Garth Brooks loved Chris LeDoux. Wasn’t long and Chris Ledoux got a big business contract and shot up the charts.

Twenty years.

I have another ten.

But only, only, only if I can change my thinking.

Wish me luck.