So, you've written a blockbuster, a bestseller, a magnus opus? You've nurtured it, held it in your sweaty hands, talked to it, caressed it... Yeah, some writers are like that about their books. Anyway, after all the antenatal classes, the breathing practise, and carrying around a bowling ball in a sack, it's time to publish. You've written a blurb, and sought advice from those who know about those things; created a cover or paid someone a fantasmagorical amount of moulah to create one for you; edited it yourself or sent it to someone who say's they're an an Editor who charges exhorbitant fees to put in a couple of commas or take them out, sent it to beta readers who tell you that it's fantastic - the best thing they've ever read, so you decide now is the time! You wait expectantly while the midwife cleans the acid-drooling alien with an oil-soaked rag, you keep typing in the title on Amazon to see if its there yet, and then when you weren't looking, it appeared and people started downloading it. OMG! Your heart thrashes about abnormally, you have to breathe in and out of a brown paper bag (do they still make bpb's?), you lie down in a darkened room until your sales reach double figures.
You felt violated, betrayed, used and abused. You swore you'd never write another thing as long as you lived. Then somebody said your baby had beautiful blue eyes, a warm smile, that although it was still a monstrous abomination, it had some small redeeming features. There was a sliver of light in the all-pervasive darkness, you stopped drinking the alcohol, stopped popping the pills, crawled out of bed to the computer clutching the quilt to your flabby nakedness. You forced yourself to put one word in front of another again, to create sentences, paragraphs, scenes, and chapters. Ideas were like stormtroopers trampling through your mind, characters rose up like wraiths in the mist and created conflict, mayhem, and emotional turmoil, stories with plots and twists snaked away into the distance like a yellow brick roads, and so the process began again.
The darkness slowly enveloped you and you signed on the dotted line, Lucifer was your constant companion, but in the end you knew he was only after one thing - your battered and bleeding soul, and welcome to it he was. What good was it to you now? You had promised him everything if he gave you everything, and the sales started to peak, readers said how beautiful your new baby was, a top-six agency offered to sign you to a publishing contract that would make you a legend in your own mind. Indies, self-pubbers, and other strange creatures that live in the London Underground tunnels, began to use your name in their blogs, follow you on Twitter, wanted to friend you on Facebook. You were the talk of the town, men with burning eyes sought your company, took you to expensive nightclubs, for exotic meals, and bought you stylish gifts. You became a parody of yourself.
If you've read this far... All I can say is that you obviously have too much time on your hands. Get writing that blockbuster! You can't please all the people, all the time - Bob Dylan said that!