A Confessional Apology (Apologetic Confession?): Here's What Happened With "The Dragonlord's Heir"
I should mention that I originally wrote this post probably over a year ago. I did not post it right away because—well, for the reasons listed below. I felt like now would be a good time to finally share my thoughts given how I've been struggling lately to feel like I'm doing anything of value with my skills and talents. This is the most honest thing I've written, probably ever.
So to channel Usher, these are my confessions.
First, I feel like I owe an apology to several people. Namely to the people who read my first self-published book, The Dragonlord's Heir.
Yes, I self-published a book under the pen name, Christina Kenway, after Edward Kenway, the protagonist of Assassin's Creed: Black Flag. Dorky, I know. I published my book four years and three months ago, to be exact. It was a middle grade novel about a young boy who discovered he was a modern-day dragon slayer à la Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson. I wasn’t proud of my book after a while, but about a year ago, I had an introspective moment and I realized that I should be proud of it.
Keep in mind that when I say I know I should be proud of it, it doesn't mean that I am proud of it. I am still struggling with this, struggling to give myself a break and ever admit that I done good, kid. I constantly look back on my book and think to myself, "Who did I think I was? What a joke."
You see, I am a perfectionist. A hard-core perfectionist, almost to the point of being crippling. I like things done right the first time, and if they aren’t done right the first time, I write off my initial efforts and try to do better to make up for it. I beat myself up until I get things right in order to prove that I still got “it.” Whatever “it” is.
Life doesn’t work that way, though. You can’t just throw out the imperfections. You have to work with them, to shape and mold them. I’m slowly beginning to realize this.
But first, before fully confessing the self-publishing skeleton in my closet, an anecdote.
While I was growing up, my mother ran a wedding dress business out of our home. Bridal clients came and went, and she made some pretty elaborate gowns which were professionally photographed and documented in a portfolio. I’m talking full-on gowns with trains, veils, and detailed lacework. She began to teach me the sewing basics when I was a teenager and I learned a lot from her, but she was difficult to work with. We both had (have) short fuses and short tempers. Sorry, Mom. We both know it’s true.
So I had to learn my skills elsewhere. I took a few fashion design classes in high school which allowed me to do some basic sewing, but I can’t say I actually learned much in those classes. We really only learned how to operate a machine, and how to read and follow a sewing pattern while our teacher watched over our shoulders, two things which I already knew how to do.
Then, a few years ago, I got into cosplay. If you don’t know what that is, think Comic-Con. All those people dressed up as video game characters, anime characters, movie characters, and the like are cosplaying. It is certainly a dorky hobby, but I had a lot of fun doing it and made a lot of good friends.
I started making my own costumes from scratch, often foregoing the standard store-bought pattern altogether and creating patterns of my own, especially for the less-traditional costumes that weren't simple A-line dresses or circle skirts. At first, I had no real idea what I was doing. Though my costumes always looked good, the construction beneath everything was terrible.
But I enjoyed the end results. I enjoyed sewing. I continued making costumes, including an original design of Maleficent, Belle’s yellow ball gown from Beauty and the Beast, and all of Elizabeth’s costumes from the video game, Bioshock: Infinite. With every costume I made, I learned a new skill. I discovered new tools of the trade. I practiced new techniques. I was eager to learn more. My arsenal of sewing abilities expanded to the point where some of my abilities had surpassed even my mother’s.
It may sound like I’m bragging, but that’s not the point. Sure, I impressed a lot of people and I received a lot of compliments. People asked me all the time to make them costumes (For the record: NO! I will not make costumes for other people! It’s just way too much work and I flat out don't want to do it!) My costumes reached a level of professional quality, and ninety percent of what I learned was self-taught. I even won a few costume contests.
But it wasn’t always that way. In the beginning, I didn’t know half of what I know now. Learning and improving required time and practice. A comparison between my first costume and my best costume is a true testament to how much I improved over the years.
So how does this relate to the self-published book I released three years ago? Well, the concept remains the same: practice makes, not perfect, but better.
I was really proud of my book when I first finished writing it and preparing it for publication. I sent it off to a freelance editor and received a comprehensive review with pages of notes detailing large plot holes and small discrepancies. I had my cover professionally designed. I did extensive research on self-publishing and purchased my own ISBN numbers so I would retain the rights to my work. I even held a catered book signing and sold somewhere around sixty books. So many people, friends and family alike, showed up to support me. I was on Cloud Nine.
Then, the reviews came in from the people who had received ARCs, or advanced reader copies, of the book in exchange for an honest review. Some of the reviewers loved the book. Others liked it. A handful of people didn’t use the word “bad,” but I could feel it in between their words.
Of course, it’s human nature to dwell on the negative. It’s a learned behavior to focus on the positive. I think it’s especially hard for artists, who offer their hearts and souls just to be told it isn’t good enough. It stings!
I allowed those negative reviews to exacerbate the fear I had tucked away in the back of my mind prior to the happy bubbles I experienced at my book signing: I could’ve done better. I just wasn't good enough.
So I deemed my book terrible, removed it from the Amazon online marketplace, and tried to erase all evidence of its existence. I didn’t want another person getting their hands on that. I couldn’t let the world know that I once thought I was capable of doing something so big or making something of myself. Who was I to think that I knew better than the traditional publishing industry? I was utterly embarrassed. I wished I had never put myself out there like that.
People often ask me, “When will the next book come out?” I had publicly declared it would be the first book in a trilogy, and had actually started writing the sequel. I never finished it, and now when asked, I shrug and say, “I don’t know,” and wish they would change the subject. To be honest, I even get annoyed when people ask me this, which is silly, I know, because they are simply eager to read more of my writing. Truthfully, I don’t want people to know that I thought my work wasn’t good enough. I don’t want them to know that I felt I had failed. I don't want them to know that I am ashamed.
This was my attitude toward my book for the past few years—that is, until about a year ago, just before entering the MFA Program. Although I’ve since left the Program for personal reasons, I learned a lot in that one year. I learned to look back on who I was and where I was many moons ago, when writing fearlessly and without abandon brought me real joy.
Learning to hone any craft or technique is a double-edged sword: sometimes the more you learn, the more you stifle yourself. I think there is a tradeoff between passion and perfection. You might write a terrible fanfiction that only you and three other people love or will ever read, or you might write a Pulitzer-prize-winning book with no heart in it. It seemed that the more fixated I became with writing things perfectly, the less I loved writing. In the days of The Dragonlord’s Heir, I just wrote. And I loved it. I didn’t critique myself until it was time for revisions.
Then I thought about all the others artists of all varieties who came before me who failed, or didn’t succeed, at their first attempts either. I once read an amazing Walt Disney biography and learned that many of his business ventures struggled or downright failed in the beginning, but he was not known for his shortcomings or for quitting. He was known for getting back up and trying again in spite of his many unsuccessful attempts (if you’re interested, that biography was Walt Disney: An American Original by Bob Thomas. I really enjoyed it and recommend it to anyone).
Not that I’m comparing myself to Walt Disney by a longshot. But who could we be if we tried just one more time? What empire could we build if we got back up on our feet and were proud of our failed attempts? There’s more shame to be had in not trying than in trying and failing, even failing repeatedly. Failing is simply proof of one's ability to endure and never accept the word “no.” And after all, everyone has to start somewhere.
Like I said before, I still struggle, especially lately, with accepting my hard work and telling myself that I did well. I constantly compare my success to the standard definition of success. In other words, if the world doesn't declare my work amazing, then it must not be, and I shouldn't pat myself on the back.
I advocate firmly for the self-publishing industry. I do believe, however, that if you want to set yourself apart as a self-published author, you have to go above and beyond to do that. Because anyone can self-publish anything, you have to do more than just publish a "good book." The truth is, to be considered successful by industry standards, a self-published book has to earn steady royalties. It has to earn hundreds of good reviews. It has to land itself on bestseller lists. It has to be able to stand up to the traditionally published book and hold its own. If you want to make a career out of publishing books, it's not enough to just publish the thing and have your friends and family read it. You have to treat it as seriously as you would treat a small business, because that's what self-publishing is.
This is what I wish people understood when they ask me when the next book will be published, but that's a whole other beast unto itself. And it's the very reason why I struggle to pat myself on the back, because yes, I did publish a book and it wasn't bad, but that's all it was. In the end, a book that "isn't bad" isn't going to cut it.
And also in the end, in spite of all this, I know I owe my readers an apology.
So here it goes.
Deep breath.
To all the people who believed in me and who asked me when the next book would come out, to those who have been waiting a few years for more, to those who aren’t pained perfectionists like me: I’m sorry. I owe something to you. It won’t be tomorrow. It won’t be for a while, I’m sure. But it’s at the back of my mind and someday I will finish what I started. It’s time to let the world know that I tried instead of hiding it. And I’m going to try again and again and again, even as I sit here still fearing that it won't be good enough. I will try in spite of that.
So allow me to clear my throat and introduce myself: “My name is Christina, and I self-published a book that I wasn’t super proud of.”
There. I said it.
So to channel Usher, these are my confessions.
First, I feel like I owe an apology to several people. Namely to the people who read my first self-published book, The Dragonlord's Heir.
Yes, I self-published a book under the pen name, Christina Kenway, after Edward Kenway, the protagonist of Assassin's Creed: Black Flag. Dorky, I know. I published my book four years and three months ago, to be exact. It was a middle grade novel about a young boy who discovered he was a modern-day dragon slayer à la Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson. I wasn’t proud of my book after a while, but about a year ago, I had an introspective moment and I realized that I should be proud of it.
Keep in mind that when I say I know I should be proud of it, it doesn't mean that I am proud of it. I am still struggling with this, struggling to give myself a break and ever admit that I done good, kid. I constantly look back on my book and think to myself, "Who did I think I was? What a joke."
You see, I am a perfectionist. A hard-core perfectionist, almost to the point of being crippling. I like things done right the first time, and if they aren’t done right the first time, I write off my initial efforts and try to do better to make up for it. I beat myself up until I get things right in order to prove that I still got “it.” Whatever “it” is.
Life doesn’t work that way, though. You can’t just throw out the imperfections. You have to work with them, to shape and mold them. I’m slowly beginning to realize this.
But first, before fully confessing the self-publishing skeleton in my closet, an anecdote.
While I was growing up, my mother ran a wedding dress business out of our home. Bridal clients came and went, and she made some pretty elaborate gowns which were professionally photographed and documented in a portfolio. I’m talking full-on gowns with trains, veils, and detailed lacework. She began to teach me the sewing basics when I was a teenager and I learned a lot from her, but she was difficult to work with. We both had (have) short fuses and short tempers. Sorry, Mom. We both know it’s true.
So I had to learn my skills elsewhere. I took a few fashion design classes in high school which allowed me to do some basic sewing, but I can’t say I actually learned much in those classes. We really only learned how to operate a machine, and how to read and follow a sewing pattern while our teacher watched over our shoulders, two things which I already knew how to do.
 |
| Summoner Yuna from Final Fantasy X. My first costume from 2012. |
I started making my own costumes from scratch, often foregoing the standard store-bought pattern altogether and creating patterns of my own, especially for the less-traditional costumes that weren't simple A-line dresses or circle skirts. At first, I had no real idea what I was doing. Though my costumes always looked good, the construction beneath everything was terrible.
 |
| Belle from Beauty and the Beast. 2015. |
But I enjoyed the end results. I enjoyed sewing. I continued making costumes, including an original design of Maleficent, Belle’s yellow ball gown from Beauty and the Beast, and all of Elizabeth’s costumes from the video game, Bioshock: Infinite. With every costume I made, I learned a new skill. I discovered new tools of the trade. I practiced new techniques. I was eager to learn more. My arsenal of sewing abilities expanded to the point where some of my abilities had surpassed even my mother’s.
It may sound like I’m bragging, but that’s not the point. Sure, I impressed a lot of people and I received a lot of compliments. People asked me all the time to make them costumes (For the record: NO! I will not make costumes for other people! It’s just way too much work and I flat out don't want to do it!) My costumes reached a level of professional quality, and ninety percent of what I learned was self-taught. I even won a few costume contests.
But it wasn’t always that way. In the beginning, I didn’t know half of what I know now. Learning and improving required time and practice. A comparison between my first costume and my best costume is a true testament to how much I improved over the years.
So how does this relate to the self-published book I released three years ago? Well, the concept remains the same: practice makes, not perfect, but better.
 |
| At my book signing in 2014 at the KJWL Art Studio in Downtown Fresno. Still thanking the Ostlunds for hosting this event! |
I was really proud of my book when I first finished writing it and preparing it for publication. I sent it off to a freelance editor and received a comprehensive review with pages of notes detailing large plot holes and small discrepancies. I had my cover professionally designed. I did extensive research on self-publishing and purchased my own ISBN numbers so I would retain the rights to my work. I even held a catered book signing and sold somewhere around sixty books. So many people, friends and family alike, showed up to support me. I was on Cloud Nine.
Then, the reviews came in from the people who had received ARCs, or advanced reader copies, of the book in exchange for an honest review. Some of the reviewers loved the book. Others liked it. A handful of people didn’t use the word “bad,” but I could feel it in between their words.
Of course, it’s human nature to dwell on the negative. It’s a learned behavior to focus on the positive. I think it’s especially hard for artists, who offer their hearts and souls just to be told it isn’t good enough. It stings!
I allowed those negative reviews to exacerbate the fear I had tucked away in the back of my mind prior to the happy bubbles I experienced at my book signing: I could’ve done better. I just wasn't good enough.
So I deemed my book terrible, removed it from the Amazon online marketplace, and tried to erase all evidence of its existence. I didn’t want another person getting their hands on that. I couldn’t let the world know that I once thought I was capable of doing something so big or making something of myself. Who was I to think that I knew better than the traditional publishing industry? I was utterly embarrassed. I wished I had never put myself out there like that.
People often ask me, “When will the next book come out?” I had publicly declared it would be the first book in a trilogy, and had actually started writing the sequel. I never finished it, and now when asked, I shrug and say, “I don’t know,” and wish they would change the subject. To be honest, I even get annoyed when people ask me this, which is silly, I know, because they are simply eager to read more of my writing. Truthfully, I don’t want people to know that I thought my work wasn’t good enough. I don’t want them to know that I felt I had failed. I don't want them to know that I am ashamed.
This was my attitude toward my book for the past few years—that is, until about a year ago, just before entering the MFA Program. Although I’ve since left the Program for personal reasons, I learned a lot in that one year. I learned to look back on who I was and where I was many moons ago, when writing fearlessly and without abandon brought me real joy.
Learning to hone any craft or technique is a double-edged sword: sometimes the more you learn, the more you stifle yourself. I think there is a tradeoff between passion and perfection. You might write a terrible fanfiction that only you and three other people love or will ever read, or you might write a Pulitzer-prize-winning book with no heart in it. It seemed that the more fixated I became with writing things perfectly, the less I loved writing. In the days of The Dragonlord’s Heir, I just wrote. And I loved it. I didn’t critique myself until it was time for revisions.
Then I thought about all the others artists of all varieties who came before me who failed, or didn’t succeed, at their first attempts either. I once read an amazing Walt Disney biography and learned that many of his business ventures struggled or downright failed in the beginning, but he was not known for his shortcomings or for quitting. He was known for getting back up and trying again in spite of his many unsuccessful attempts (if you’re interested, that biography was Walt Disney: An American Original by Bob Thomas. I really enjoyed it and recommend it to anyone).
Not that I’m comparing myself to Walt Disney by a longshot. But who could we be if we tried just one more time? What empire could we build if we got back up on our feet and were proud of our failed attempts? There’s more shame to be had in not trying than in trying and failing, even failing repeatedly. Failing is simply proof of one's ability to endure and never accept the word “no.” And after all, everyone has to start somewhere.
Like I said before, I still struggle, especially lately, with accepting my hard work and telling myself that I did well. I constantly compare my success to the standard definition of success. In other words, if the world doesn't declare my work amazing, then it must not be, and I shouldn't pat myself on the back.
This is what I wish people understood when they ask me when the next book will be published, but that's a whole other beast unto itself. And it's the very reason why I struggle to pat myself on the back, because yes, I did publish a book and it wasn't bad, but that's all it was. In the end, a book that "isn't bad" isn't going to cut it.
And also in the end, in spite of all this, I know I owe my readers an apology.
So here it goes.
Deep breath.
To all the people who believed in me and who asked me when the next book would come out, to those who have been waiting a few years for more, to those who aren’t pained perfectionists like me: I’m sorry. I owe something to you. It won’t be tomorrow. It won’t be for a while, I’m sure. But it’s at the back of my mind and someday I will finish what I started. It’s time to let the world know that I tried instead of hiding it. And I’m going to try again and again and again, even as I sit here still fearing that it won't be good enough. I will try in spite of that.
So allow me to clear my throat and introduce myself: “My name is Christina, and I self-published a book that I wasn’t super proud of.”
There. I said it.
Comments
Post a Comment