My Authorial Dreams, and Stumbling Steps

This is more of a personal reflection than an essay, per say. Really leaning into the blogging angle here.

What do I want from being an author?

This is distinct from (though connected to) questions like “why do I write”. Writing is one thing, sharing that writing with the world is another, putting a price tag on your writing and working to put it in front of eyes is something else again.

Because while 2025 is the year I started publishing online, it’s also the year that I’m taking serious steps towards getting my first novel (self)published. I got lucky and stumbled into a superb suitable editor (go give some love and any digital spare change you have), I’m in the middle of setting up an author website, I’m looking at doing a crowdfunder in the summer to see if I can convince 500 people to spot me £25… and if it works, there will be months of further work. Blood and sweat and tears and lost sleep and stress headaches.

Then I start over with book two. I’ve got four planned, and plenty more fermenting in the primordial soup of my subconscious.

And I’m not expecting to strike rich here. In fact I’ll be thrilled to make my investment back (and that’s IF the editing costs get covered by backers!). Fame or even acclaim is unlikely.

So why bother?

I don’t believe in an afterlife.

…Not a satisfying answer? Fair. Let me elaborate: I am animated star dust swirling through a chaotic existence, and while nothing I do can ever matter some of it is far more meaningful than the rest. When I die, there will be ripples left. I want them to reach far and stir deep.

I want to write fiction which lights up hearts and sets minds buzzing. I want to influence future writers. I want to change lives and through them the world.

Hubristic? Probably. I’m the naturally arrogant sort. But hey, you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take and all that.

Circling back around to why novels, you can do a lot more with longer formats. It’s correspondingly harder, hence seeking professional editing, but most of the works which have sat with me ever since I read them were novels.

And once you’ve written a full book, a physical thing with a title and cover and life of its own, that’s a scrap of immortality. Put together enough and… who knows? I doubt most writers on literary reading lists were expecting to be considered relevant so many years later.

Plus, while professional writing is indeed work, it’s work I can (usually) tackle around my health issues. Flexible hours, a variety of tasks requiring different cognitive levels, the possibility of passive income once I’m established. And the internet lets you connect with people despite being housebound.

It does feel strange to be setting out after dreams while the world is :gestures vaguely at everything:

Now or never or something?

In summary, I write to try and make sense of the world; I’m becoming an author to chase immortality.

Check back in a hundred years and I’ll tell you how it’s going. 😉