Doubt: The Writer's Constant Companion

Over ninety odd blogs I've discussed various aspects of the writing experience. Now I'll attempt to address the elephant in the room, the devil squatting on every indie author's shoulder: doubt. (Not that it doesn't afflict traditionally published authors, but that isn't the focus of this post).

Ninety five percent of the time I love being indie. I can write when I like, no deadlines looming. I scribble away with my tongue out, lovingly transforming the wild scrawls into a book. I blog and tweet so people know I'm still around. When the story gets five stars or I receive a message from a reader, it's great.

But then there's the other five percent, the five that makes me want to take the books down and forget writing altogether. Bitchy reviews are depressing but at least they're proof that someone somewhere has bought a copy. More frequent is the resounding silence on both sides of the Atlantic. Without a non stop marketing mill behind you, your project is condemned to sink, of no interest or consequence to anyone.

I realise I must sound like a petulant child. "What did you expect, a parade?" Hypothetical Reader 1 scoffs. Or: "If you wanted a wider audience, why not get a traditional publisher like everyone else?" Or, most toxic of all, "Is it because you secretly know you're not good enough?"

Doubt is awful. It's anti creative and harmful. I've come closer these past few months to giving up than ever before; some days I wonder if I'm just being bloody minded. I have to remind myself that artistic careers are measured in a completely different way from other fields. While people accept that not every entrepreneur is Richard Branson, you're not considered a "real" author unless your book has been reviewed in one of the nationals. And if my only concern is fame and fortune, shouldn't I jack it in anyway?

Once I stopped writing for nine months. It seemed like a reasonable decision at the time. I'd received my first rejection from a serious publisher; ergo I'd never get anywhere. (I was fifteen and very melodramatic).

The result? Pure misery. It may sound overwrought and pretentious, but it honestly felt as though a dear friend had died. I somehow managed to go through the motions and pass my GCSEs, but it wasn't life as I knew it could - and should - be lived. I didn't feel like myself until I had a pen in my hand again. Screw Publisher X!

Doubt will always be there. Only the supremely talented or unaware lack it. Since there's no way of exorcising it, you may as well roll up your sleeves and carry on.