I Have No Fans and I Must Scream

(Apologies to Harlan Ellison)

An up-and-coming writer lost her book contract after she created fake Goodreads accounts and review-bombed other authors. Another author posted on Twitter/X that writing is “an old man’s game” and proceeded to ridicule younger authors who write neurotic characters like themselves because they lack life experience. Then there’s the indie author who griped on BlueSky about how her book got rejected, and gave a one-star review to another writer while chewing them out publicly.

There’s something toxic about today’s publishing industry. Maybe it’s always been this way and social media magnifies the awfulness, or maybe it started because indie authors are facing pressures to succeed and prove themselves so they engage in horrid behavior out of frustration or immaturity. 

Whatever it is, failure doggedly pursues us, cutting us down, dashing our dreams and making us feel like our stories don’t matter. 

Author John Wiswell recently posted an essay about how common it is for writers to feel like failures and how to process their perceived shortcomings:

“Failure is a thing we do. It is not who we are.

You wrote a short story, and submitted it, and it was rejected. The story technically failed to be accepted. The story did the thing, but you take it personally because you put some of your heart into it. We naturally extend some of our identity over artistic creations. So that ache over rejection is common. It’s okay to feel it and explore it. 

But that same week as you wrote that story that got rejected, you also took care of your ailing grandfather and cleaned his room. You worked your job without throwing a t-shirt in the face of an unbelievably rude shopper. You took your meds. You weathered the flu, figured out how to do more laundry with less detergent, and made it through brutal physical therapy. By being alive enough to read these words, you did a lot more than fail in that week.” 

Failure has occupied my mind for the past few months, usually creeping in when I least expect it, when I’m distracted and checking Amazon Author and noticing zero book sales, or when I’m musing about an upcoming novel that stubbornly won’t come together. 

I can’t help but take failure personally.

Dark thoughts slip in on sunny days, when the world is bright and cheery. They gouge their way into my cerebellum, elbowing the pleasant thoughts and squatting in my brain. All I think about is how little I’ve grown, how futile writing is, how my words fail to catch fire. 

Have you ever felt alone with your writing? Even though the words come, everything feels so empty? That you’re shouting into a void? That the conditions for success you’ve set for yourself – books sales, number of reviews, reputation with other writers – is always out of reach?  That you feel like you’re not part of a community but a hermit feasting on impostor syndrome?

Writing is hard. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Writing this for me is hard. I’ve put off writing this for three months because I thought immersing myself in my job would distract me, but I can’t escape this notion that I failed to meet my writing goals. 

Where other writers have fans, people who love their work and let the world know, I have a dull silence. I have a chorus of nothing. Despite my marketing efforts, paying money for ads, asking reviewers to review my books, I have no fans and I must scream. 

I must scream because the months spent writing, of losing myself in building worlds and populating them with characters nobody will know, infuriates me. My first book reading, held at Philcon last month, resulted in only two people attending – my wife and the writer who read after me. In that moment, all my fears were realized: my stories, no matter how much time I sink into them, no matter how much money I spend on editing and promotions, are merely ephemera; wasted words from an obscure fabulist.

Rejection is all part of the writing process, as calculable as the tides. If you’re a writer, you will be rejected over and over again. But sometimes you get a tiny taste of success. Sometimes the universe smiles upon you throws you a much-deserved bone. You get a book sale, you get a review, you get another publishing contract. But then, as soon as you rejoice, things go back to the infernal slog, back to waiting for that email that will never come, for the uptick in the sales graph, for a five-star review.  

Internally, you fight back feelings of self-doubt and self-sabotage. You busy yourself with mundane tasks. Take a break from writing. Show those words they have no control over you, that you’ll crack the whip like some leather-clad dominatrix and force them to heel. 

But you sink deeper into yourself, putting up walls, cursing your incompetence, blaming yourself for not being a Stephen King or Neil Gaiman. You’ve set your bar too high. You’ll never be Stephen King or Neil Gaiman. You can only be you, and if that means cranking out book after book nobody reads, then so be it. It’s your authentic self, a unique voice only you can write.

This year has been an okay for me. 

My debut novel Accursed Son was a finalist in two literary competitions; the Next Gen Indie Book Awards and the American Fiction Awards. It also received a five-star rating from Readers’ Favorite Book Reviews, and was nominated for several categories in the Indie Ink Awards. 

Yet sales were far from great. 

My publishing journey has been painfully difficult. There were setbacks, rejections, and a troubling silence. Social media has been a dud; followers are scant for me. Making a connectino with readers is difficult for me. Indie authors are like sideshow geeks biting the heads off chickens while smiling with bloody mouths. Meanwhile, the acrobats sail flawlessly over the crowd below, performing feats with elegance, and basking in the applause.

Who applauds for chicken boy?

While teaching Ray Bradbury this semester, I used one his quotes about writing: “Quantity produces quality. If you only write a few things, you’re doomed.” 

And so I write. And I fail. And I write again and slightly improve. And fail again. And repeat the cycle year in, year out. Each shitty first draft holds the promise of a great story. 

I should temper my expectations. I’m no miracle worker. I’m just an old dude writing about things that interest me. The only option for me is not quitting, no matter how bad it gets. I’ll write, submit, and help other writers out the best I can. Writers should support each other, even if it’s a few kind words, a pat on the back, or buying them sandwiches. We need less toxicity and more community because we’re in this thing together. 

If that means I peddle my desolate freak carnival from town to town with no interest, so be it. If writing is hard, and finding an audience even harder. The fact that another human being would spend money for a book that I wrote perplexes me. They’re spending time in another person’s imagintion. How nutty is that?

And so my freak carnival rolls on, determined to entertain, but finding itself ostracized and run off by shinier, worthier acts. Perhaps one day I’ll find my fans. One day they’ll come with money in hand, eagerly awaiting the worlds I create for them. And perhaps they’ll tell their friends about the bizarre weirdness they experienced.

A man can only dream of that hypothetical day. But for now, I’ll be the one writing and screaming.