Nothing matters and that doesn’t matter either
*poem*
I am procrastinating the gruelling process of figuring out how one may publish a novel when one has zero writing credentials / degrees - by starting the sequel to said novel.
I think I have words words words and I think people might enjoy reading those words but I think I am confused by the obligation of finding a medium that may get those words read (aka who the fuck do I think I am to fantasize about getting a publisher’s attention when people dedicate their entire lives to doing so and I dedicate my entire life to fantasizing).
It appears to be a good idea to start sharing said words as a promotional move but it also appears my poems work best as a body of work and resemble cold severed limbs when they stand alone.
I had indeed capitulated to the idea of self-publishing, because !! no one can tell me what not to do !! But I’m afraid I could barely reach anyone outside of my web of personal acquaintances, whom happen to be exactly the people I hope might avoid reading me rip my heart out x)
After spending years researching self-publishment to further convince myself upon it, I finally fathomed the courageous common sense to try the publisher thing first, ‘just in case’ (requiring altogether new dimensions and criterions and brain cells).
I still feel an increasing sense of carelessness and it is still so freeing and still so boring. And then I remember I am a frolicking human on a planet where the softest form of rebellion is pleasure. Which suddenly makes pleasure appear productive. Which makes me worried I am not enjoying myself enough. Which prevents me from enjoying myself.
Here’s a poem I wrote coming out last UK lockdown:
