The dream is Dead

What happens When your dreams are dead?

Starting in 2020 I decided to give up everything I was doing and focus full time on writing. Since that point I have published tons of novels on Amazon. Self-published, obviously, but it’s still something. I know people don’t take self-published anything seriously but I’ve been down the “traditional” path and I didn’t like what I saw. That’s a story for another day. The point is that for almost three years I’ve been doing every thing I can to make a name for myself, get a following, and become my version of successful at writing.

I know that people love to say that I am successful because most people don’t even finish writing one novel let alone 8 different novels. Even with that, even more people don’t finish a trilogy of books within one series. That I should feel accomplished and I should feel successful just because I was able to do these things. Except, I don’t. All I feel is hollow and empty. Maybe some people write because they enjoy it and that’s all they need to get out of it. That is not the type of person that I am. Since I was 5 years old I’ve wanted to be a writer. I even have a box of old school projects where I wrote down that it was my dream. To write books and be famous at it. If someone feels like they want to write and that brings them happiness (that they don’t need to be a commercial author or even known) then more power to them. I am not and never have been one of those people. I’d gladly write for free if I knew my stories were actually being read. A huge part of writing, in my opinion, is telling a story. If you are writing for no one to read it you aren’t telling a story.

Wanting an audience, wanting to be successful, wanting recognition, doesn’t make me any less of a real writer than anyone else (even though tons of writers will claim this is the case). I’ve been told that if I’m writing for an audience then I’m doing it for the wrong reasons and I’m not really an artist. Which I don’t believe is the truth. Would we have any of the great authors we have today if they didn’t feel the same? Would we have King and Tolkien and George R.R Martin? What were they doing if not writing a story to try to find some form of success. Though I’m sure they all enjoyed the process of writing, if they weren’t interested in fame, fortune or publication they easily could have written all of their books, called it a day, and went to work a different job. Why is it not okay to be like that? Why is it not okay to want that? Well, it isn’t because I get hounded a lot about it.

I do write for my own enjoyment, or at least I did. After nearly three years of low book sales, almost no reviews, and everything else I’ve lost all faith in my writing. I’ve decided that I’m an absolute failure. I question if my writing is shit and if I even should continue because no one is reading. Though some claim this is a marketing issue (and in a lot of cases it might be) I don’t know. My book, Birthright, which was the first one I published (and the bestselling book out of all of them nearly at 200 copies sold as of now) has 13 great reviews. It is at 4.6 stars on Amazon. That book is part of a trilogy that has two more books. People leave rave reviews about that book but almost no one has read the two that come after it. So, how great or engaging can my writing be if there’s a follow up to that bestseller and everyone’s like “Naw, no thanks?”.

I have gone back to fan fiction but I’m not finding much success in that either. More than likely because I’m writing for a very niche group and fan fiction also doesn’t get a lot of reads unless it’s full of pointless smut instead of plot. I don’t have a problem writing sex or erotica (and you’ll find adult scenes in almost all of my published books) but that isn’t all I want to write. I want a plot and I want adult content, which is how my original novels are. A good mix of both. The same idea doesn’t fly with fan fiction because people get bored if someone’s not getting fucked within the first chapter. I’m losing my grip on this and I’m losing my confidence. I once thought I had a chance I once believed that writing would get me where I needed to be and I don’t anymore.

Everything has become a dull shade of gray. Video games aren’t fun anymore even though they used to be my passion. Writing makes me feel nervous and sick because I never believe I’m doing the right thing and it’s not good anymore so why bother? I live with chronic illness and pain and that’s never going away either. My financial situation is dire and has left me to rot in a dangerous neighborhood that’s only getting worse, not better. I’m in a city I hate with a family that I hate even more and don’t get along with. I have no options. No recourse. I can’t work a proper job because I’m disabled. I’m alive but I’m not living. I can’t travel. I can’t get a good education. I can’t have a career. I can’t date, no one wants someone who’s such an absolute failure and miserable all the time because either they are in pain or they realize what a shit stain they actually are.

Though I don’t want to die, I do wonder what the point of continuing to survive is. I feel I have potential. I feel that I could reach that potential given the right connection and tools. Yet, I know that these things will not happen and I’m no better than pond scum on the bottom of someone’s shoe. This realization has hit harder than ever these past few months and it’s made me realize no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I will always be trapped and I will always be a failure. Without outside help of people who can or will give me a chance to stretch my wings and fly it’s just not going to happen. Meanwhile, I get to sit back and watch utterly garbage people worth less than the air they breathe be constantly rewarded because they happened to be born into the right family or fuck the right people. I know I’m not the only person in this position. I know I’m not the only talent that will never be discovered because fame is now about popularity, money, or who you blow. It still doesn’t make it any easier to deal with nor does it stop me from being completely miserable.

Would you keep trying to succeed at writing when all signs point in the direction of a dead end? Knowing my luck, I’ll only be popular after I’m dead and what will that give me? I wish there was some way to change this but there isn’t so I guess the only answer is to stop getting out of bed. Count down the days until it’s all over. The one thing I ever wanted is never going to happen. I can’t explain how devastating it is to realize that it’s over and that I’ve wasted half my life believing a lie.

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