Please, patronize me.

Recently, my creative life was hit by the equivalent of a flat tire. Which, for most, wouldn’t be any big deal. But, the thing was, metaphorically speaking, not only had I been drinking and driving, but I was also in the middle of the desert. I wasn’t present in my own life, and I was missing the good parts by only focusing on what was wrong. I’d been published, semi-favorably reviewed. My books were out there, being read. I was meeting people online and in person, and I even had a friend of mine, in public, break down when speaking about how she was moved when a certain character in Fabrick died. She was mad at me, but said she loved the book. I had affected someone with my art, and in turn, I too was moved. I surprised myself, because I didn’t think I was capable of doing that. And I was missing it, letting it roll past me with only a glimpse and a faked smile of acknowledgement.
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I was an idiot.
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Because, not too much later, just this spring, when submitting the packet (the first three chapters and synopsis of the plot) to the third book in the Fabrick Weaver series, I was told that the sales of Fabrick weren’t hot and my publisher would not be completing the trilogy. I was assured it was a difficult decision, and I believed them. I’d grown close to my editors and staff. I know all their names, our email exchanges are on a first-name basis. Although I didn’t talk much about it—with anyone, not even my closest friends—I kind of tumbled head-first into a rather . . . not-good period.
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I realized that not only had I missed the good stuff when it was happening, letting it slip right past me, but I was also now deep in the actual bad time and I hadn’t appreciated the good when it was right in front of me—and now the bad was all I had.
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I had another book due to come out though. Everything would be okay. I’d market the hell out of that new book, and that’d pull me out of this lurch. Heh. The press that had taken on that second book fell apart. The guy behind the helm—who shall remain nameless—shut down the press without even so much as a word to his employees. The book is still under contract to be published, three months ago. I’ve been trying to get the rights back, but to little avail. But at the time, learning that not only the third book of my trilogy wasn’t going to happen but the other book I had coming out—and had people excited to pick up, made a Goodreads page for it and everything—wasn’t going to happen.
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I decided I’d stop writing. That I’d take these events, coming in such quick succession, was a hint. I wasn’t made for this. I didn’t have thick enough soles to tread these here coals. I began putting my efforts elsewhere.
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A few weeks passed and I was feeling pretty blank. Like I was going through the motions. In my non-writing life, I do a lot of temp jobs. Volunteering and non-profit stuff. All temp, all entry-level, all non-commitment. In my spare time between, I’d take notes normally. On stories, maybe a snippet of dialogue that’d spear me from out of the ether. I wasn’t, and in my spare time or days off, I was doing nothing. Nothing. Sitting around, reading books I wished I had written, growing green with envy anytime ANYONE got a boost in their career. I un-friended people from Facebook left and right, stopped following people on Twitter, thinking these petty little revenges would make me feel better. Nope, I just felt like a dick.
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I can do nothing else. I write. I come up with stories—or, rather, they come to me and I work as their filter and transcriber. I was taking notes again, all the time. Ideas were coming to me in floods, and I started putting them down on paper. I didn’t care that no one was getting back to me about jobs or writing projects or even freelance writing assignments. My email inbox remained a ghost town, and I was okay with it. I was doing my own thing, writing again.
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I decided I'd undo the ropes holding me to the anchors. Because you can move while anchored, sure, but you’re just going to end up going in circles. And boy howdy was I. Looping over and over about things I couldn’t change. I couldn’t make people want to work with me. And in the end, I was letting the most important thing become neglected: the writing itself.
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I can't give up, especially not on Clyde, Nevele, Flam, and Rohm. Their story needs--and still needs--to be completed. I owe it to my friend who cried in public--depiste how crowded it was at that bar that night--saying how upset she'd been, and how moved by my writing. She'd grown attached to that character, and I owe to her--and everyone else who fell in love with my characters--a fitting ending. I write, it's what I do. What else can I do? A semi-bad Gollum impresson. But after about three seconds, that gets pretty tiresome to be around. Unlike my books, hopefully.
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I want to finish the Fabrick Weaver trilogy. And with your help, I can do that. Honestly, I need your help doing it. And I want to write other things too. I want to continue pursuing traditional publishing routes, and if and when I ever get big enough to not need grassroots support, I will gladly turn your money away. But not you, not you-you. Anyone who helps me, I’ll never forget them. I cried over five bucks yesterday, someone gave me through Patreon. Five bucks. From a friend whose work I greatly admire, and hopefully my work is something he admires too. If he asked for five bucks, or more, I’d gladly give it. If I didn’t have it right then and there, I’d pawn something or find some way to get him what he needed.
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I know which way I’m going now. I’m in the trip, with eyes open, fully present. I just need a breeze to keep me going. And that’s why I’m asking for your help.
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If you go over to my Patreon page, you will see what helping me will get you, in return. I know a lot of you don’t want anything for help, but trust me, it’d kill me if I didn’t give you something at least. I’m not begging, but I am asking. Without shame, without pretending or exaggerating. I want to continue to do this, and I only can with your help.
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Thank you,
-Andrew