Once upon a time in a small Midwestern town an unknown writer set out to write a novel. Absurd. It couldn’t be done. Why bother? Really? The naysayers and my internal voice battled, but for reasons I can’t explain the writing continued. I studied the craft, developed my story, and a few years later it was done. I hired an editor and the story grew.
The next step was much harder. Should I get an agent, publisher, both, neither and just throw caution to the wind and self-publish? After more research, rejection, reset and retries I submitted to one more publisher determined that if no response was received this time I’d figure out how to self-publish.
On April 7th, the date of my late grandmother’s birthday, the answer to my submission came in the form of an email. I opened it, without hesitation, fully prepared for the worst with a spark of hope lingering. I saw the word “Accepted.” I read the email a couple of times to be sure I was understanding. My work would be published. I can’t say how long I sat dazed looking at the monitor, but when my soul finally returned to my body I was jubilant.
A publisher from Australia was willing to take a chance and help me make a dream a reality. We did a virtual book tour, and got some reviews. We did a simple book trailer that featured a song I wrote and sang. I entered the Royal Dragonfly contest and was a winner. I did some book signings at a few places and received an invitation to attend a local author event at the grand old Indianapolis Central Library. I was finally exactly where I wanted to be.
A little over a year later the publisher developed health issues and closed. It was a gut punch, but looking back I had a great experience that I’ll never forget. Who knows, I still may self-publish. Some books, like wine, just might get better with time.