Self-Publishing The Hard Way: The Art Of Giving Birth

Summary: You know? When you publish a book and send it out into the world, it's like giving birth to a baby. Everyone checks out your baby. Is it breath-taking? Does it have ten toes and ten fingers? Is it pink and sweet or does it look like an extra from "Alien?" We writers are baring our souls, our deepest thoughts, and our feelings lay open like a cavernous wound. We can't hide anymore. They know us inside and out. Now they see our baby, and they get to pick it to pieces, bit by bi...

You know? When you publish a book and send it out into the world, it's like giving birth to a baby. Everyone checks out your baby. Is it breath-taking? Does it have ten toes and ten fingers? Is it pink and sweet or does it look like an extra from "Alien?" We writers are baring our souls, our deepest thoughts, and our feelings lay open like a cavernous wound. We can't hide anymore. They know us inside and out. Now they see our baby, and they get to pick it to pieces, bit by bit, until the only thing left is a fuzzy blanket. Oh, hell, we know that and go right on writing, don't we? It's in our DNA. We can't help ourselves, we're masochists. When I started this whole book-writing process, I had full intentions of finding an agent and/or a traditional publisher; they'd do all the work while I sat back and listened to "Ca-ching, Ca-ching." However my journey to that end has been long and stress-filled and I ended up doing just the opposite...I'd kept a daily journal while living in Thailand in the 90s. When I returned to the States, I copied my journal onto a floppy and had it printed, spiral-bound, and mailed it out to friends and family so they could read about all my trials and tribs while abroad. One of the friends who read it insisted that I make a book out of it. "You know," she said, "like the book 'A Year in Provence.'" I immediately ran out and bought the book and was amazed at the problems that the author had endured in a short year. I just knew that if his book sold, then mine would also, however, life got in the way of living and I put it aside. I joined some creative writing classes a few years later, and with encouragement from my peers I began the long road of putting the journal into book form. In 2003, when I finally thought I'd finished it, I entered it into the Southern California Writers Conference in San Diego. While there, I read chapters from my story in the Read and Critique groups and the attendees laughed in all the right places and even clapped, (I'd hoped it wasn't because they were happy I'd finished). At the end of the conference I was notified that I'd won the Best Nonfiction award for my story and an agent asked for my manuscript. Wow! That just doesn't happen unless they love it! I knew I was ready for the Pulitzer. Then I began to panic. What if it isn't perfect? I had talked to a "book doctor" at the conference who advised me that my story "