What if writing was all that mattered?

Lots of garbage filling my head with noise

Let me start off by saying that I’m going to share some personal things that have happened to me since I started writing professionally. I’m not calling anyone out. I’m not naming names. I can guarantee that these things have likely happened to a number of authors you know, whether they are indie or not.

And all these years later, I’ve come to the conclusion that… no, I still don’t feel good about them. They still make me feel like I’m undervalued, that my voice does not matter. And every day, I try to overcome them so that I can rise above those feelings.

I started writing professionally in 2010. Professionally in that I chose to self-publish my first book that year. I was 22 and I was young and inexperienced in the industry. Not knowing what I was doing, not knowing what to anticipate, and not understanding why people treated me like they did has made me who I am today. I stand by what I write. I’ve had to learn the hard way that not everything is what people want to read. My voice isn’t necessarily the most marketable thing. I don’t write books that glorify sex or gore. My horror is quiet, tension-filled, and weird.

But here are some examples of some things, friends:

• Someone I was engaged in business with told another client I was a “snob” because of what my book was about. I’d had one meeting with them about the story I’d written. This was my first time talking with anyone in the industry about publishing.

• I’ve paid for a market plan that was copy-pasted from other client’s plan (their book title was even left in several places, I assume, by accident.

• I’ve had libraries tell me they don’t think their patrons would come to a reading event because they won’t be interested in my books. After putting out nine books since that last ask (two of which were finalists for the Maine Literary Awards), they still aren’t interested in having me.

• Numerous signings, readings, or events where no one showed up. Sitting in front of a room with empty chairs. Waiting for twenty/thirty minutes stupidly thinking people might be running late. They’ll show up. Won’t they? People have busy lives, busy schedules. Libraries have limited funds to market. Bookstores have dozens of events to schedule, tons of authors, publicists, and publishers to acquiesce. I understand. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt any less.

• I’ve been told by a podcaster they didn’t think anyone would be interested in an episode about my book.

• I’ve been forgotten about by podcasters three times when I had scheduled podcasts

• I’ve had an indie publisher look at one of my books and tell me that I don’t know what I was doing while shoving his business card into my hand

• I’ve had people tell me time and time and time again that I don’t write horror

• I’ve had people refuse to read my work based on the fact that I’ve called it horror. This is a stigma they have against horror. They misunderstand it. They don’t understand its nuances, the many different forms it can have.

• I’ve had an organization not post my name publicly when I was named as a finalist for an award and then come up with an excuse for it when it was brought to their attention. It was never corrected.

• The fourth book that I wrote and released was my worst performing book ever. I sold three paperback copies. I didn’t write or release anything for three years because I was so heartsick over it.

• I’ve had a bookstore send back my books immediately after buying close to 30 copies for one weekend event. They returned them through a distributor who then charged me for those returns. I had to pay out close to $300 for those unwanted books.

• I’ve had a publisher hold onto my submission for a year before rejecting it. They said they didn’t have any room in their publishing schedule. They opened up for submissions again the next day.

For all of those things, there are ten more things that I’ve forgotten about. Any time something like this happens now, I feel like it’s just another brick in the wall I’m building around myself.

These are the things that my psyche ends up scribbling on my mental etch-a-sketch before I go to sleep at night: my work is never horror enough to be considered horror. I’m not considered queer enough to be a queer author. I’m not feminine enough to be a notable woman horror author. In this vast sea of people shouting and screaming for their voices to be heard, I feel lost.

Am I resentful? Unfortunately, I am. Will that change anything that happens to me in the future? I hope not.

I can’t say that every horror author has felt like this but I’m sure a lot have. I also know that some of them have been able to build up armor in order to get through it and push on. I have my moments, but today isn’t one of them. Particularly, when I’m marketing a book for release, I get this sinking dread about how well it’s going to perform.

My last newsletter was all about how I hate promoting a new release during the summer. That comes with these lingering doubts about my career, about my ability to “make it.” I’ve worked the same job for nearly 20 years while hoping that some day, something would change. I’ve seen friends rocket to stardom through all sorts of crazy happenstances and wondered, well…it must be my turn, right?

It’s luck. And it’s hard work. And it’s a weird cosmic combination of those two things. And no, just because you wish upon a star for it to happen doesn’t mean it ever will.

So… how do we say

So…how do we persevere in light of this crippling abyss that is the void of horror?

Well, just because it hasn’t happened yet and the chances of it happening are low, doesn’t mean it won’t. Who is to say that the next book you write, the next story you tell won’t be the one that ignites in everyone’s hearts? What’s to say that the right person won’t read your words and feel such an intrinsic connection to it that they won’t reach out and let you know it?

Fame and fortune, and hundreds of readers connecting to our work sounds lovely. But the act of writing itself has always been something I could never ignore, never shy away from. Even in those years where I was convinced I didn’t have another story to publish, I still wrote. I still had ideas. Ideas that turned into things like The Collection, and The Wild Dark.

Maybe if there wasn’t such a performative need for us all to sell, sell, sell, we’d all be just a little happier. Writers could write and put their work out and not have to worry about how much money they needed to make to pay off their advances, how much time was being spent on marketing. We could just write and feel good about it. And readers could read and not feel like they have commitments to keep to authors. “Read my book before it comes out!” “Feature me on your podcast on my release day!” “Why didn’t you review my book?” Gross. Enough.

Every time I email or message a reviewer asking if they have time to read something of mine, I feel slimy. Every time I email a podcaster or a bookstore or a publisher, I tell myself not to expect a response back. But there’s that industry and career expectation, that desire to get to a place where books can be my whole life and not that grating 9-5 in a small town where there are very few other options to pay the bills.

I’m rambling. I know I’m rambling. My point for this whole blog post was to say that writing should be all that matters and that I wish it was all that mattered. I wish that I hadn’t had to have these experiences. I wish that I didn’t have to poke and prod to find out if people might be interested in what I have to say only to find out that no, they aren’t. Is this post going to get side-eyed by people? I expect it to. I expect that someone will look at this and immediately say “Well. We’re never going to publish this person. They can’t hack it. They’re just looking for reasons to be upset.”

Maybe I just don’t care anymore.

But I needed to write this. I’m tired of carrying all of this around in my head. And maybe now that it’s out, I can just write and enjoy it. For me.

Fellow writers, particularly my fellow women horror writers, my fellow queer horror writers, my fellow neurodivergent writers… I see you and I hear you. Let writing be the only thing that matters.

Off to fill a blank page,

Kat