I started writing for a very simple reason. I like writing. I enjoy cultivating ideas and expanding my little stories. I like populating worlds and creating bizarre situations.
My writings were originally kept in a a notebook. Actually several half filled notebooks. Then I moved on to a blog that was intentionally hard to find. I was writing during work and wanted to keep it anonymous. But I still wanted to write.
A short story grew into a novel. And what is the purpose of a novel without readers. Now, I’m in the phase of having words I want read and needing to find those wanting to read it.
I’m finding this to be a harder task than actually writing the book. I don’t know how to talk about myself or my task. I either feel like I’m bragging or that I am beating myself up too much. I don’t know how to walk that line.
I research hashtags and groups and forums. I add my posts and feel they are either hitting nowhere or getting lost in a sea of noise.
So in blog and write and tweet and hope that as I do so folk interested in me and in my work increase. I try and attract readers and hope those readers will turn into reviewers.
One day the numbers go up. The next they go down. I write and write and look for the magic formula that connects me with an audience broader than my circle of friends.
And why do I do that? Because I want to write. And this seems to be how the game is played in order to get the time to write.
And so I market me.