An Author's Struggle - What Lies Ahead

Ch 4 - Feedback

The optimism did not last long. When he first shared his dream, it seemed more like the beginning of a nightmare. The online group he expected to find support in had only barbs to give.

Voyek#2352: 50 hours, and this is the best garbage you could come up with?

Lanka#5321: The only thing you should be writing is a farewell note to your parents…

A stream of curses caged him in a wall of self doubt. Among the dozen or so brush-off compliments, those baleful retorts stuck out to him as if highlighted by God himself. 

His eyes focused solely on them. That invitation to quit. To delete everything his pen name stood for and close his eyes. It would be so… easy. A tantalizing offer that promised serenity and peace.

Staring at the chat, he noticed that people had long since moved on from discussing his work. To them, dissing his effort was done in passing, less trivial than a joke. 

Taking the criticism at face value, he took back his work and redrafted it anew. You can’t fix a marred statue without making it smaller. So, he shed a layer, and came back in a few days. With renewed bravery, he posted a snippet again.

Voyek#2352: Is it trash disposal day?

Lanka#5321: Nah. Why?

Voyek#2352: Then why is Murphy posting his novel again? 

Lanka#5321: Haha, for real. No one wants to read your garbage…

It made no difference. His courage crumbled, one layer at a time.

With each edition, he carved bits and pieces off his draft. He stumbled in the dark for a clue, but found little guidance from his so called friends. 

Snap!

Slamming his laptop shut in sync with his closing eyes, he reigned in his breath. His lungs were filled to the brim, but that wasn’t behind the heaviness in his chest. 

It was his heart, bleeding — punctured by every fragment he was forced to discard along the way. 

‘Why am I doing this?’

It’s an innocuous question. Unfortunately, one that writers tend to ask too late. 

It isn’t just money, because the margins are so small, only a few could make a living.

It isn’t a hobby. Most authors only enjoy the thought of writing, and not the actual process. For him, even the thought lost its appeal by now.

It isn’t for the reader, either. While few would admit it, the role of the reader is almost trivial. 

That’s when it dawned on him. His passion was not supposed to be beholden to any of that. His goal was never to become popular or rich, but to be free! 

An exhale — so forceful and lengthy that it cleansed even the depths of his soul.

He drew in a fresh breath. It no longer tasted bitter. Everything was clear now. Liberated, he dove right back into it. 

A new draft, a new premise. 

- —    ✎    — -

The second time came easier. With prior practice, his fingers practically glided across the keyboard. No different from an ascetic monk at tune with nature, he was fully in sync with his muse. Sybil whispers in his ear, guiding one word at a time throughout the night.

Despite being spiteful for the barbed comments that left faint marks even now, he still drew some insights from them. 

To cater to a wider audience, he slapped in a reincarnation trope. Struggling for some time, he eventually found a way to naturally weave the two together. A street urchin, and a billionaire. A nobody’s child, and a king among giants. 

The contrasting archetypes would clash, giving birth to something even he as the writer was thrilled to explore. 

Still somewhat bitter about the new norms, he nonetheless conformed. Reincarnation wasn’t the worst thing in the world… there was still systems and harems. Heh.

Being a writer in this era ultimately meant he had to chase his readers. He couldn’t idle by in a book shop or host a signing and expect people to show up in curiosity. 

Murphy found himself walking a thin line. On one hand, he wanted as many people as possible to enjoy his works. On the other, he didn’t want to compromise his so called ethos, or what little remained of his crumbled ego.

Begrudgingly spending another few weeks editing a few chapters a day, he was finally ready to hit that post button again. This time not to his friends, but to a wider audience…

But… where to publish?

The internet made publishers accessible, but it also meant they were always flooded with requests. As a self-conscious beginner, he instantly wrote off the possibility of signing with them. 

Then, there was the online self publishing route. It seemed so obvious at first glance, but when he dove into the actual crux of it, there were so many sites he didn’t even know where to start.

Too excited to bother reading in-depth about each of the dozens of platforms, he settled for the biggest. Surely, that also meant it was the best!

Boasting over 10 million app downloads, and hundreds of thousands of daily active readers, QiE-Novel was the biggest library he could find, so he immediately made an account.

Glancing over the other entries that made it to top 10, he scoffed in self-confidence. He was no critic, but was an avid reader nonetheless. Over the years, he had refined his taste enough to know what was garbage. There was a lot of novels he readily dismissed as trash in that pile. 

Whether it was out of confidence, arrogance or idiocy, he assured himself he would make it there before long. After all, that gargled nonsense had made it to the top. Surely, the editors would deign to accord him a chance as well. 

Staying up late to give his baby one final look, he eagerly performed the final checks. Murphy was so enthused and worried, you would think he was launching a rocket into space.

Copying chapters one by one, he couldn’t help but imagine just how many fans he would have in the morning. 

‘At long last,’ he thought, ‘my name comes true.’

That night, he wove his first dream into reality. 

The novel was scheduled, its fabric unveiled for the whole world to see. A work of art that would surely enthrall them, just as it ensnared him for months to complete it.

Time ticked, and before long, in a system somewhere in China, the final countdown was issued.

The first volume was posted.

And then… Like a pebble in the ocean, it sunk unseen.