So I have finally finished and self-published a short comic, but its not as rosy and moneymaking as I thought it would be.
When I was a seven my mom asked me what I wanted to do for the rest for my life. Being a very contemplative person from birth, it took me a few minutes to mule over the idea, which followed by a few days of doing case studies in crayon on large pieces of paper. I weighed out the pros and cons of being a doctor, archeologist, actress and writer. Doctors have to perform surgery; I feel queasy at the sight of blood. Archeologist have to go into small tight spaces to find great discoveries – I was claustrophobic. Actresses get to play all sorts of characters in all walks of life – I loved the idea. Writers invented worlds. Writers invented universes.
And so after much deliberation, I decided that I wanted to be a writer. I did however pursue acting when I was younger because I found that very fascinating, however at the heart of it I simply wanted to write, and not just write, I wanted to event whole universes and galaxies of possibilities. I wanted to form the kind of experience for a reader that my favourite writers had created for me, Diana Wynne Jones being in the center of the mire of my thoughts.
Life has had it’s way with me like a leaf blown about in a tornado, and although I never got the chance to get the degree in English Literature that I had dreamt that I would atain after my diploma in Fine Arts, I have never stopped writing. My art’s entire purpose has been to become the vesel at which I weave my stories into fruition. For someone who works part-time there is no option to hire actresses or editors, so even the dreams of a webseries is extinguished quickly as my next paycheck goes into rent and bills respectively.
I pitched my stories over and over to many publishers and if rejection was a song, it’ll be stuck in my head right now on replay. I’ve already cried and died enough to be desensitized by it and as far as I am concerned, my work is either really lousy, or it’s ahead of it’s time. It’s the kind of thing that will breeze from a settled gay family to a suicidal teen with an abusive past to a faey quest on the darkside of the moon. Perhaps it’s because in my head I can’t imagine who would be my audience, which is why I end up with no one as my audience.
However I am sure now that my audience is a very simple demographic. It’s for young women and men who like me, have been tossed about by the wind, and told that they wouldn’t amount to much. Told that their genius means nothing in this century and they will amount to nothing much else beyond their pay grade.
And that’s why I choose to self-publish, whether anyone is watching or not, because at least I know I’ll keep walking on when everyone else has given up, and I’ll keep drawing the voices when everyone has told me to shut up, because after what I’ve been through, I refuse to stay quiet and do nothing about it.
We all need to heal, whether we can afford it or not.