So much for my happy ending: Back to the beginning

In April of 2005 I self-published “Who is Sean: a collection” despite its many grammatical flaws, but mostly because I wanted existence, existence as a writer on my own terms before the corporate machine that’s inevitable. I self-published, because sometimes you just have to believe in yourself, and at first I thought it was pathetic to be another self published black gay author, but I decided to push through shame, become serious about my life decision to be a writer, not author, but an artist who is tormented by his work, not for love or adulation but purpose. It’s what I am meant to do like breathe, and it doesn’t matter if all my breaths add of to a wasted or admired life, I was here, and I was a writer.

Funny, a month after I self-published and started sending out my Press Release to certain gay publications and magazines, someone whose name will not be mentioned contacted me. He said he has been a fan of my writing for years, despite its vulnerabilities and unpolished demeanor, he liked that I was raw, a bruise knee before medication. I liked that he liked me, and since I was still on my three day alcoholic binge, I was so nonchalant and agreed to let him help me get my name out there. Soon, he would call back, and started wanting to make changes. He wanted to republish the book under his publishing company, then he wanted to change the cover and title, then he wanted me to do a book tour and it all sounded so exciting. Of course I took that attention and re-directed it negatively towards all those bitches who thought I would never amount to shit. I sent them the link to my website that this person seemed to upload over night. He sent me the new cover, and it was of some hot boy and I liked it. I liked the attention. It wasn’t until I started noticing that I was doing all the work and hadn’t been promised a damn thing that I became concerned. He used my press release, he used the interview I did with myself about my book, and he even used my quotes as his own. I decided to email this person, to inquire about compensation or a book agreement, and got no response for two weeks. Instead of calling me, he sent me a quick reply that the “project” had been put on hold until further notice. I really didn’t care. I knew it was all bullshit to begin; I just wanted to follow the rabbit down its hole. I wanted to be taught a lesson, to test my seriousness about my work and writing career.

In the end, I’m happy I didn’t bend to desperation. My life sucks, that ain’t a lie. I don’t have a job I like, no book contract, no body in the literary world even knows my name, I’m at least another five months from completing my novel, then there’s the synopsis, and query letter and arduous task of finding an agent, but I am happy I didn’t bend to desperation. A lot of writers, artists bend to desperation. They just want to be loved, get some attention, stand in front of a crowd and appear important. If I would have gone through the motions of letting homeboy re-publish my book without any compensation it would’ve been complete bullshit and made me a fraud and even more pathetic than self-publishing. At least with self-publishing, I am compensated. Every book I sell, I get 20%. It’s something. I say, so much for my happy ending, because I really prefer reality. I had no delusions that my journey to becoming a respected writer will be easy. Shit, I still can’t spell most days and am the king of run-on sentences. But, I say fuck it. I guess I will add copy editors to my list of addictions and wasted money. I try. I really do. I study my grammar and learn new more adult words so that I won’t swear so fucking much, but cool beans. I’m back at the beginning. I got 30 copies of "Who is Sean" to unload on kind strangers. I have flyers to pass out. But more importantly, I have a life to claim by any means necessary. It’s art, heart, and soul, but mostly it’s a business.

Goethe's couplet: "Whatever you can do, or dream, you can, begin it. / Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it."