Epiphany. Again.

I’ve been here before, and I’ll likely be back again. It’s like quitting drinking; you need to do it a few (dozen) times before it takes.

Publishing is not for me.

Mainly, it’s frustrating. Looking for publishers or agents—and distilling real publishers and agents from the swamp of vanity presses and predators—and then querying them, takes more time than I have. And to what end?

If I ever did get a contract, I’d be required to do editing, rewriting, revisions, signings, and interviews, all while establishing a media presence. I enjoy a nice, orderly life, with little room for stuff like that.

While I do think my stories are good enough to be real books, they are not what publishers are looking for. These days, they want a mega-seller, a block buster, a book by a debut author that is going to break records and push that novice writer into the limelight and make them so famous that anything else they write will fizzle because it can never be as good. They want something they can take in, chew on until the money dries up, and spit out.

Additionally, when I read About the Author blurbs, more often than not, said author started out in some sort of publishing or media-related profession with contacts in the business, giving them a huge advantage over a normal, unknown, struggling, but talented, writer.

And finally, I’ve been writing since I was 11 years old. That’s 60 years. If it hasn’t happened by now, it’s never going to. Not simply because I’ve been failing at it long enough to confirm I don’t have what it takes, I’m simply too old. Not in a “too decrepit to crank out a novel” way; (think: James Michener or PD James) but more in a “gosh, that number is awfully large,” judgemental sort of way.

Basically, I cannot imagine a publisher or agent accepting a manuscript about a 26-year-old woman solving a murder written by a 71-year-old man. That’s just a bit creepy. They’d have to make up a pseudonym and hire some young woman to pretend to be the author.

Given all this, my options appear to be:

• quit writing (not going to happen)
• continue to bang my head against the wall to try to attain something I don’t want and am not likely to get (tempting, but counter-productive)
• write what I want at the pace I set and make as good a product out of it as I can and sell (or give) a few away to family and friends

I need to resign myself to Option Three. I mean, does the world really need more mediocre books? If I can write something I am proud of and turn it into a professional-looking book, that truly is a reward in itself. And, while I have given up the notion that I don’t need anyone to read it, I can always find at least half a dozen people to foist a few copies off on.

Option Three may also minimise writing-induced angst and make my life a bit easier; if I can forget about producing a best-seller and just write the book, the story will likely be better for it.

The only real problem with Option Three is my complete lack of marketing ability.

There are people out there who self-publish their books, maintain robust followings, and make a chunk of change in the bargain. That isn’t me; I haven’t the time, the skill sets or the desire to develop a major media presence which, therefore, makes me a failure.

Or does it?

Failure is a fluid concept, as is success. The journey from unknown novice to superstar has many waypoints, and if the traveller experiences any success at all, that should be enough: comparing yourself only to those who are ahead of you on the path will keep you, in your own mind, a perpetual failure. Therefore, although I am not on a par with Stephen King, if I look behind, I see I have managed a fair number of lesser triumphs over the years.

In closing, I’ll point out that two of my major mini-triumphs (publishing two of my books with real publishers) were both accomplished due to my acquaintance with people in the business, which gives further credence to my above observation concerning success and contacts, and settles, to my satisfaction, that I would certainly be a best-selling author if only Richard Osman or Jodi Picoult would introduce me to their publishers.