I am a walking set of contradictions, an enigmatic concoction of diametrically opposed ingredients. My parts are eclectic and difficult to reconcile. 

On one hand, I have a burning desire for my book to be read. I want it in the world, being devoured, and touching people’s lives. I want my book to succeed. I want more than anything to write for a living. To wake up every day and sit in front of my computer and create words that inspire and fascinate. I have a deep longing for the world to hear me. To get a little glimpse of my mind, and say “I get that”. I want, no, I need to feel understood.

But I’m coming to the realization that in order to do that, I have to become comfortable marketing myself, which feels self-absorbed. I have to think of myself as a brand, which feels reductive. I have to figure out how to package myself, which feels fabricated. I have to ask people for help, and convince them my book is worth their time. 

You know what my least favorite thing to do is? Talk about myself, not unless it’s being mascaraed through fiction at least. That is a new tension I’m starting to feel, and it’s not one I’m particularly fond of. I’m trying to do some self-reflection to understand where that feeling is coming from. 

Is it fear-based? Do I have a fear of being judged? Of course. Do I have a fear of being ignored? Certainly. Do I have a fear of being seen as arrogant, of being exposed? Yes, and yes.

Maybe I just answered my own question. 

But the irony isn’t lost on me either. Here I am, talking about myself at this very moment, as my fingers race across the keyboard. Why am I ok revealing my vulnerabilities so nakedly, and yet saying “buy my book” feels so unbearable?

I’m learning that to be a writer in today’s world, you are expected to be marketers, to be brands, to be personalities, to be content machines. This all feels so strange to me, and misaligned with my authentic self. 

So, if you follow my Instagram page, and feel the awkwardness coming through in my desperate pleas for attention, I apologize in advance. Maybe I’ll get better at it, or maybe I won’t. Maybe there’s some charm in that awkwardness. Maybe there’s a niche where that might resonate. Who knows? 

All I know is that I want to write, and not just for writing’s sake. I want to be heard, and most importantly, I want to be understood.