Yeah, I guess so.
This morning I applied to two contemporary museums, edited my Goodreads author page, hacked into my Amazon author account, and stared into the abyss for a hot sec. If you read my previous post, I talked a bit about closing the book on being an author forever and sort of accessioning that career choice into my past. I'm trying to get work at a museum in the US, London, or somewhere else, I'm working as a website designer and at a fancy bookstore currently--my free time is not very existent at the moment. I'm having a good time, but I'm constantly tired. If I don't wear foundation, I look like a member of the undead (I know this because I don't work today and am therefore not wearing makeup).
Then a few days ago, two different family members asked if I were doing any bookish things. I said no, that I'd called it all off to go to grad school in London, and I hadn't heard a thing since. I didn't want to hear anything. Writing books is extremely stressful; it eats a lot of your time and is an extremely heavy commitment. You have to think up the book, then write the book, then send out queries for the book. This requires drinking lots of coffee and probably crying from time to time. Impersonator syndrome abounds and you question who certified you to do this in the first place. If someone picks it up, you have to edit the book a few times (which is actually the most fun part for me), collaborate with a cover-artist, and market your book. This means scheduling interviews, developing media kits, writing blog posts, and running other social media in engaging ways that aren't just horrible spam posts saying 'Buy my book! You'll adore it!' I recently looked at the media work I did for my first novella and man, I don't understand how I had time to do all that. I was nineteen or something and a sophomore in university, so I was probably just gargling coffee in my dorm.
Now I'm a sleepy, mentally exhausted twenty-three-year old with dyed-blonde hair and a Masters in Museum Studies with a burning urge to pick up another language and work internationally. I'm more game for possibly becoming a freelance artist once I can afford a tablet and drawing program than submerging back into the universe of literature. I don't even have time to read that much anymore.
But then yesterday my publisher emailed me asking if I wanted to start publishing again.
I've learned to say yes to most opportunities. Plus a dear friend changed my outlook on my older writings last night. Part of the reason I wanted to lock my manuscripts in a closet and swallow the key is because the person who wrote them is not the person I am now. I'm more knowledgeable about the world, I'm academically smarter, I'm more mature. I understand that 'the good guys' in a novel don't have to be spotless caricatures and that the world is a lot more grey than black and white. But I was advised not to view my books as written by me, but as the younger version of myself. For who I was five years ago, those novels were the best I could produce and I was so proud of them it burned.
So I gave my approval for edits to begin on the most recent novel I wrote, Monet Evanesce (click the title to learn more), which will be my first full-length novel published. Which means it will be published as an e-book first but has the potential to be published in paper form as well if I nag enough. And I intend to. Having one of my own books on my shelf is something I've wanted since I was twelve and was told I had the gift of writing.
I only just gave the go-ahead last night, but I'm joyful to get the edits whenever they arrive.
Official website of Rachael Kosinski, 23.
Pen for hire.