Doubt.

You have it. I have it. Even the most confident people I know have it. Just recently, I caught up with an incredibly successful friend who’s been an amazing mentor to me for many years.

You guessed it. He has doubt, too.

Sounds stupid to say it, but it never even entered my mind that he’s just another human, with struggles like the rest of us.

Why do I bring this up?

I’m about to self-publish a book in a week (Across the Broken Stars). As you can imagine, that creates a lot of doubt.

Will it sell? Will people read it? Most importantly, will people enjoy it?

This isn’t my first rodeo. I published my debut fantasy novella, Fires of the Dead, in September of 2019. Back then, I didn’t have this much doubt.

Fires of the Dead was an experiment. A quick, 20 000-word novella that I wrote in 30-ish days and published within five months of starting the thing.

If it bombed miserably, I told myself it wouldn’t be a big deal. Of course, I cared deeply about the story, and I was proud of how it turned out, but if it failed it wouldn’t be the end of the world. As it turned out, the book did well, getting 70% of the way towards my financial goal by the end of 2019. The reviews were amazing, and it felt great to share my first book with the world after writing for 8 years.

This time, the stakes feel higher.

I’ve worked on Across the Broken Stars for two years. Earlier versions of the book were rejected by 24 agents. Even revealing that fills me with doubt. Shouldn’t I be pretending that I never bothered with agents? Shouldn’t I cover up the fact that an earlier version of the book failed?

I was seriously tempted to cut that last paragraph out, but the fact that I wanted to cut it is probably a sign that it needs to stay. To quote Neil Gaiman:

“The moment that you feel, just possibly, you are walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind, and what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself … That is the moment, you might be starting to get it right.”

Neil Gaiman

I’m not exactly a card-carrying nudist-colony member. But I’ll do my best.

In hindsight, I understand why those agents rejected my book. My pitch was horribly long and boring. I thought the book itself was good, but after revising it in late 2019 I realised there was so much I could improve. Improve it I did, working with an editor for the first time at the end of last year – with amazing results.

Revising the book was quite a humbling (and wonderful) experience. It made me realise it hadn’t failed with the agents because I was a bad writer. Rather, the book had failed because it wasn’t as good as it could be. Do I think it’s perfect, now? Definitely not. But it’s the best book I’ve written, and the best book I could write given my current abilities. Early reviews have gone some way towards alleviating the fear that it won’t be good enough.

“If you are looking for an epic fantasy that has a unique setting, this is it.”

Kate Valent, Reedsy Discovery 5-star review of Across the Broken Stars

Realistically, though, people’s judgements about the story aren’t my biggest fear. God, that last sentence sounds so pretentious. Like I’m a hack that only cares about money instead of people’s thoughts. That’s certainly not me. I’ve read every review for Fires of the Dead (5-star, 1-star, and everything between) and while review number 20 didn’t teach me as much as reviews 1 through to 3, I hugely enjoy hearing people’s reactions (whether good or bad) to my work. That’s why I publish, after all.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m really happy with Across the Broken Stars. It entertains me and still makes me feel deep emotions even after reading it 20-30 times. That could be my authorial bias, of course. But whatever it is, I’m grateful to enjoy something I wrote. Hopefully that will be the same for the majority of readers.

What I’m scared about (more than bad reviews) is something else.

There’s plenty of incredible books – self-published and traditional – that are fantastic, yet never find an audience. Going down the self-published path has, I think, given me an ill-conceived notion of risk. For some reason, I feel like I’m under more pressure to be successful along this route, because if I can’t achieve self-published success then I’ll never get a traditional publishing deal.

It’s only in recent weeks that I’ve moved beyond this fear. While one of my mentors (who is a successful trad author) warned me of the dangers of self-publishing (namely, big risk for little reward), it seems to be the least risky approach. Continuing to put out my own books will improve my writing and build an audience. If you’ve read this far, that’s only further evidence that I’ve got something of an audience. Thank you!

What was that risk of self-publishing I mentioned? Specifically, my mentor suggested that unsuccessfully self-publishing my books might decrease my chances of getting an agent in the future. While it was well intentioned, and I’m thankful for his guidance, this had me doubting myself for months.

By self-publishing Across the Broken Stars, was I walking down a doomed path?

Maybe that will be the case. But it’s a maybe.

It seems to me, however (and perhaps this is my naivety talking) that self-publishing has higher odds of success* than the traditional route, because it’s less of a maybes game.

*(Quickly on the note of success: to me, I define success as being able to write as much as I want and to keep my love for telling stories.)

As nice as a big traditional publishing deal would be for my ego, I don’t really care about external gratification. Sure, it would feel amazing! But I’m less focused on publishers liking my work, and more concerned with readers liking it. They’re the ones who are paying for the stories, after all.  

Of course, there’s massive overlap here. Traditional publishers would probably do a good job of exposing my work to new readers.

Based on my research, however, it seems like the median income for self-publishers is higher. I’m not in this for the money. But that is an important factor to consider, since a higher income from books means my books are reaching more people – and it means I can write more.

(Hmm. It’s odd how analytical I become when I’m contemplating important things. I suppose it’s a strength, but it must sure feel weird for you to see me segue from vague emotional thoughts to rational considerations).  

Self-publishing seems like a shallower mountain to climb. Both in the sense that you won’t suddenly score a 7-figure book advance … but also because it feels like it’s more about constantly releasing great books and building your backlist until readership starts to slowly grow.

It looks less impressive. There’s no spike of overnight success. But it taps into consistency and persistence, which I think are my strongest skills. Over time, I think it will build into the best kind of long-term career. No, my books probably won’t be distributed into tens of thousands of bookstores. No, I won’t have a huge publisher singing my praises.

But with hard work and persistence, I can hopefully have an email list of two thousand true fans, or more, and that will probably be enough to earn me a living.  

Self-publishing, while still heavily luck-based, seems to reduce writing from a game of probabilities (getting picked by a good publisher) to a game of hard work (developing a large, quality backlist of books). Reducing things to hard work feels like a game I can win.

Or it could fail miserably.

Maybe Across the Broken Stars sucks so badly that Amazon bans me from ever putting another word on the internet. Maybe people hate it so much that they throw eggs at my house. Maybe I never will be a successful writer.

That doubt hurts. It hurts so bad. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want to be an author. These last few months of having actually released a book, of having a thing in the world that people can read – they’ve been the best in my life. I don’t want that feeling to end.

And despite the challenges that I’m sure are ahead, I don’t think it will. Somehow, writing this article has helped clear my doubt. Some of it’s still there, of course. It always will be and if it wasn’t there I wouldn’t be human. But now, I’ve come to see Across the Broken Stars for what it is:

An experiment.

Just like Fires of the Dead. Because, ultimately, that’s all a book ever is. Not the end of the world, not the all-in final bet of my career, but a test. A test in developing characters, structuring a plot, and using stories to explore what it means to live.

Maybe this test will fail. Maybe the next test will fail as well. And the next, and the next, and the next. Maybe all the failures will get to me, and I’ll stop for good.

Or maybe something else will happen.

Maybe each test will teach me something. Maybe each test will become more successful. Maybe the tests will lead to things beyond my wildest imagination. Maybe I’ll look back on this article thirty years from now and shake my head at the doubt experienced by my twenty-one year-old self.

I don’t know the future.

I do know this:

I love writing.

There’s nothing like the elation it gives me to wake up at 5am and pound the keyboard for hours, to slip into another world and witness stories emerge from nothingness. There’s nothing like when an idea unfolds, fully-fledged, into an incredible plot that seeps into your dreams.

Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes it’s easy. Either way, writing is my passion. Self-published or traditional, financially successful or not, I’ll be doing it for a long time. For the rest of my life, with luck. Even if I die with hundreds of mediocre novels buried under the floorboards, I’ll still count that as a success, because I love it more than basically anything in the world.

Across the Broken Stars comes out on Monday. I’m excited. Not because its success or failure is the end of the world, but because it’s the beginning. That, I think, is the secret:

It’s always the beginning.

Here’s to stories.

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

Litany Against Fear, from Dune by Frank Herbert.