So last weekend I managed to fubar my computer’s registry beyond repair. Fubar as in Fucked Up Beyond All Repair. Of course, the “R” can also stand for “Reason.”
I messed up the registry so badly that I’m going to have to do a clean reinstall of Windows 10 — or Windows 8.1, since 10 was a free update. I’ll probably be able to reinstall the free Windows update using the Media Installation Tool. I bought a usb copy because I can’t burn the free tool for myself at the moment, and honestly, such a disc should be given with the computer. I shouldn’t have to spend extra money to reinstall something I already bought (as in Windows 8, not 10). Whatever happened to a computer actually coming with physical software discs?
While I did backup a lot of my writing — including The Prince of Qorlec and its book covers — I’m still going to lose a shitload of stuff. So much stuff, I can’t even deal right now.
Just know that I’m very very depressed.
I was so happy and content prior to this happening, that as soon as it happened I thought, “There must be a god somewhere and they just don’t want me to be happy.”
Because some stupid shit like this always happens when I’m happy. Nothing in my life can ever just go right.
To be perfectly honest, I was thinking for a long time of just quitting. As in writing. As in Kindle. As in the whole she-bang. I been thinking of just saying “fuck it” and not bothering anymore. And because I love lists, here is a list of reasons why:
1. I’m tired of bigots.
Do you know what it’s like to fight oppression? No? Then you won’t relate to this post (or any of my books, possibly). But anyone else who’s been denied something because of something biological that was determined at birth (yes, sexuality falls under that category) knows how exhausting it is, trying to be seen and heard as a human being in a world that doesn’t even believe you are human.
Just five months of this shit, and I’m tired. It’s enough that I have to contend with it in every other aspect of my life. Actively fighting bigots just to have my voice heard has made writing into this unejoyable thing. I can’t sit down to work on a book knowing that no one is going to read it, review it, or give a fuck about it — and if they do read it and review it, they’ll give me a low rating because they’re a bigot who didn’t like that my character had the gall to make honest commentary about racism/sexism/insert-typical-bigotry-here.
I still haven’t quite gotten over how someone responded to my book Qorth — as in, really rudely. And no. I’m not talking about a review.
I want writing to be fun, not something I do while wondering what kind of shit I’ll have to put up with once the story is published.
Remember how I mentioned (either here or in an interview) how I used to write at this website and had a following for ten years? I missed them so much that I went back to writing for them. I may not get paid for it, but at least I have the reward of knowing there are hundreds of people waiting to read my work — however crappy it is — and I don’t have to go out looking for them, nor fight my way through waves of bigotry to find them.
2. I’m ordinary.
Which means, as a marginalized voice, I’ll never see any commercial success.
I know it’s ironic, even hypocritical, that I’m writing this after encouraging another similarly discouraged minority voice to keep writing, but the truth of the matter is this . . . a minority can never, ever succeed in spite of the status quo unless they are extraordinary.
So if you’re a marginalized voice and you happen to be a mediocre writer, forget seeing any kind of financial success in regards to writing. Because apparently, only straight white people are allowed to be average. Everyone else has got to be a genius, or else no one wants to take the risk publishing them.
You know why most publishing houses only have one or two token writers of color? Because they only pick the truly extraordinary ones, and the rest of us average smoes aren’t worth the risk.
You have to be extraordinary. There has to be a 100% chance that your agent will find a publisher for you. Because an agent does not want to take the risk with a marginalized voice. Taking the risk means they have to fight oppression in your stead, approach publishing houses that will turn them away as soon as they realize the characters aren’t straight and white. They get a healthy dose of what it means to be marginalized and none of them want that — not even the ones who are minorities.
Why should an agent fight so hard for a book about black characters that probably won’t sell — because society is still too racist — when they can more easily make money off a book about white characters? Unless your book is the next –insert whatever crappy commercial success here– your brown/gay/female ass will never see the light of day.
Marginalized voices don’t get to be ordinary. I’m ordinary. So what am I to do? It finally hit me some time last month that as a mediocre writer — who had the gall to write about anyone who isn’t straight and white — I would never get anywhere in the publishing industry, even while self-published. It gets tiresome going to book bloggers, constantly knocking on doors with my hat in my hand, only to discover that this person hates gays, women, indie authors, people of color — or sometimes (have mercy) all four.
Being an ordinary writer and a marginalized writer at the same time is too much trouble. It isn’t worth the effort. Not when I already know I will never see any commercial success, even moderate. I might as well go back to my comfy little corner of the internet, where a moderately large group of people actually likes my shit-writing and waits patiently for me to share it.
3. There is no market for ebooks.
And when I say that, I mean that there is no money to be made with ebooks. People seem to expect that ebooks should be free, and if they aren’t free, then they want them to be cheap. They want your hard work to be free or cheap, which means you bust your ass for pennies — and they can’t even be assed to give you a review in return for that free copy, knowing full-well that reviews are important to indie authors who wouldn’t get noticed otherwise.
I’ve been thinking a long time of simply not finishing The Prince of Qorlec. As I’ve often said in the past, I tend to have lovely ideas but not enough talent to pull them off. I feel like PoQ is one of those things. I want to finish the fourth book, but after everything that happened with my computer, and given the fact that I’m just too depressed about my shitty writing to do it anyway, I don’t think I will any time soon.
I tried writing a chapter long-hand after my computer broke and I realized it wasn’t even fun and it didn’t make me happy, so what’s the point?
Writing doesn’t make me happy anymore. I wish it didn’t have to be that way.
I feel like I just want to play video games and tune out the world. . . maybe until I die. And this is why I’m really upset about losing my data. I’ll have to reinstall my games, I’ll probably lose my most recent games saves, and I’ll have to reinstall so many mods. Ugh. Pisses me off every time I think of it.
Bought a media installer usb tonight. It’ll probably get here Monday. I’ll wipe my computer (/bursts into tears/) and spend the next week slowly rebuilding all that was lost.
I lost a lot of Kindle files. Mobis. Photoshop files for my book covers (ugh, I’ll have to reinstall CS again). Interview questions. Drafts. Ideas. All that is gone. So if I contacted you about a giveaway, I might be late replying because all this crap is going on. Thank you in advance for your patience and understanding.
Also, I might not even return to Kindle or Goodreads or any place. I might just stop writing ebooks altogether and maybe only write my stories at that one place I mentioned.
Tonight I’m going to fall asleep binge watching the PowerPuff Girls (the old one, not the new one) because I’m depressed and Bubbles is magic.
I imagine the next few weeks are going to be hell for me, trying to get everything back just the way it was. Reinstalling old video games. Signing back into websites. Resetting passwords. I weep inside as I think of it.
Only I won’t be trying to restore any lost writing.
Writing’s just . . . not fun anymore.