Who Am I, And How Did I Get Here?

Ah, the joy of a pseudonym. You have no idea who I really am. <Insert crazy laugh here.> The mystery is the point, but I didn’t choose to write under a pseudonym to cover up some bizarre political ideology or resurrect a cancelled career. I’m not hiding from anyone or seeking to avoid persecution or prosecution. I’m not that interesting.

I am starting my career over. Not because I was cancelled, or because I somehow irreparably damaged my own name to the point that I can no longer use it. I’m simply starting fresh.

I relate some of my journey over on the Why Is Everything Here Free, Are You Crazy page. There I detail why I made the decision to give my work away instead of seeking to monetize it. The long and short of it is that I was once a traditionally published, agented writer who seemed to have the writer’s dream all sewn up. But that life wasn’t all I hoped it would be.

Instead of being a joyous journey, it made me depressed. Writing was no longer fun. Heck, it wasn’t even the primary thing I did anymore. My time was too fractured by social media postings, marketing, chasing down pirates, fighting algorithms, blocking crazy people from my social media feeds, and a whole host of extraneous things that weren’t writing.

Now, anyone who is a die hard introvert will understand this, I think. When I wrote my first book, it was glorious. I spent months inside my head, living with the characters. But once that first book was published, suddenly that freedom was gone. I had all these other tasks to attend to, none of which I enjoyed, plus pressure to churn out books ever faster to capitalize on “success.” Not to mention the pressure to continue a series long after I believed the stories to be done, and to use AI if I had to. (Read my AI Transparency Statement if you want to know what I thought about that.)

Achieving my dream cost me the thing I enjoyed the most: Time to play with a story or essay idea, to get to know characters, and to just live in my own little world without interference.

All of this took a toll. My writing, such as it was, became worse. The pressure to write faster and faster didn’t make my work better. That crucible produced no diamonds, only shattered coal. My mental health went down the drain. I couldn’t make sense of why I wasn’t happy. I had the dream many writers would kill for. What was wrong with me that it didn’t work for me?

What was wrong with me that I wasn’t happy staying in my lane and writing in one genre? Why did I need to write in others, even after being told that I needed to stick with the genre that defined me? (And that I was too old now to switch.) A publisher told me that I could switch genres, but I’d need to do so under a pseudonym (not only to switch genres, but also to cover up my age and gender) and start my career over.

(And by the way, I don’t personally care about my age or gender, but the publishing wonks like to worry about these things. Gray hair is bad, wrinkles don’t look good in author photos, and no one wants people of certain genders writing in certain genres. To me none of that is relevant, so I find it hard to participate in a system that makes it relevant.)

My problem was that I took something I enjoyed and turned it into a job. Some people can do that and be happy, but I could not. Making writing a job ruined it for me. I am much better off keeping it as a hobby, or a semi-professional pursuit.

And that was when the lightbulb went off. Why not start over? And this time, drop away all the things that made me miserable and keep only the things that worked for me. No mistake: It would be a hard reset. Once I went out on my own, I would have no rights to my existing characters or stories. No backlist to prop me up. It was scary, but also exhilarating.

The lure of a clean slate was too strong to resist. However, if I was truly going to do this, I knew I wouldn’t seek the traditional publishing route again. Nor would I go down the self-publishing route. I have no desire to cater to Amazon’s Kindle Unlimited whims, market my work on social media, or to spend hours crafting cool posts or aesthetic-du-jour photos. Those things are simply not in my DNA.

I don’t even care anymore if my work gets pirated. (As long as someone else isn’t passing off my work as their own, that is.) It would be pirated regardless, so at least if I’m not writing for money, why do I care? It’s not taking anything away from me. Obviously I support the ethical stance that piracy is bad. Stealing is terrible and authors shouldn’t have their work stolen. But, since no one is able to stop piracy or willing to enforce any action against it, it’s better for my mental health not to care.

I simply have no f*cks left to give. Writing is all I’ve ever wanted to do, and my time on this planet is finite. I’m not dying today, but neither do I have decades left to waste on the wrong path. I don’t knock authors. I love other authors! I salute those who have had a different journey than me and who are content on the publishing road. Please, keep my libraries and bookstores full! I’ve simply realized that it isn’t for me and I’m at a place in my life where I need to trim away anything that doesn’t bring me contentment.

Life doesn’t have to be rosy all of the time (and it never will be), but I like the feeling of being happy to approach the keyboard again, instead of dreading it. I like writing for joy instead of resenting all the other stuff that goes along with it.

And that, dear reader, is the end of my origin story.