I’m sure most writers have stories of having to overcome detractors, of having to hold true to their belief in themselves and their craft, despite what others have to say about the matter. I’m not one of them. I’ve always had the support of those closest to me, including when I decided to venture into the world of erotic fiction.
My biggest detractor was myself. This isn’t that unusual for writers — there are many who will feel that they’re never quite good enough.
I spent most of my high school years writing sci-fi in my spare time, only to print out the stories and put them on a shelf, not having shown them to anyone. It was something I enjoyed doing, even if I was the only one that knew the stories. I had told my English teacher every year that I wrote sci-fi as a hobby and I got lots of enthusiastic responses... until they found out that I’m a fan of Star Trek and my short stories were similar to the show. (One teacher looked down his nose and said, “Oh, you’re one of those people.” Another teacher made a disgusted look, scoffed, and said, “How can you like that stuff?”) They weren’t all bad teachers, though. I had one teacher who wholeheartedly supported my love of writing sci-fi and my love of Star Trek. (I later found out that this teacher’s son was a sci-fi novelist and his wife was an internationally bestselling romance novelist. So that would be why he supported my interest in genre fiction and Star Trek.)
After high school, I toiled away at writing more sci-fi. However, I had no plans to make it a career. I tried submitting a few stories and novels here and there, but never put any real energy into it. In my mind, not only was I not good enough to be a career writer, I felt that even if I were to have a career as a writer, the career itself would not be well-paying enough to live off of. So I relegated writing to a hobby.
I tried to put my life in a different direction — I went to university and got a couple degrees, one of which was my Bachelor of Education. My “back up plan” if I couldn’t write was to be a math teacher. (But in my mind, it was “the plan” not “the back up plan” since writing was never seriously a plan.) I never took a job as a teacher, for various reasons, and did a number of different jobs. I went back to university again to get a masters (because I wanted to work in the non-profit field and for a lot of higher-up jobs, you need a masters) and ended up putting my sci-fi writing on indefinite hold. I had no more time for it and it was really nothing more than a passing hobby.
Then enter the man who would change my life forever, the man who would become my husband.
Not only did he support my writing — after all, he is a writer, too — but he was driven to have us both have careers as writers. He pushed me to better my writing, pushed me to submit to agents and editors, and pushed me to be more passionate about it.
However, by that time, I had more or less burned out on writing sci-fi and taking masters courses at the same time. For a refreshing break, I tried erotic writing. Since then, I’ve never looked back.
My first novel got snapped up by a small publisher, as well as my second. From there, I discovered the self-publishing path and have charted my own journey through the publishing landscape. While I’m not super successful, as I still have a day job, I can at least now see that being a writer can be an actual profession. I now have three pen names and approximately fifty erotic titles currently released.
I do plan to return to sci-fi at some point in the future. For now, though, I need to see where this erotic writing path will lead.
And it’s led to some interesting places.
Over the past few months, I’ve mentioned how I’m in the process of helping set up an erotica and erotic romance publishing company. Well, it launched a week ago and is open to submissions. Many people have asked why I bothered starting up a publishing company when erotica and erotic romance thrive on self-publishing — these are my new detractors — and my answer has always been that self-publishing is not everyone’s ideal. Some authors want a publisher — the detractors may not understand that, but many others do. I love the process of publishing as much as I love the process of writing, so if I can help an author get their book on Amazon and Kobo and all the other places, then I would love to do so.
In the past five years, I’ve gone from giving up on sci-fi, and thus giving up on writing completely, to becoming a multiple bestselling author and soon-to-be publisher. To do that, I had to overcome my biggest detractor — myself.
Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Seduced by My Best Friend’s Dad (co-written with Sandra Claire). He is also the publisher and co-founder of Deep Desires Press, a publisher of erotica and high-heat-level erotic romance. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.
Showing posts with label self-doubt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self-doubt. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
Friday, April 12, 2013
Essays on the Desk and Bones Under the Water
by Jean Roberta
*****************
Do I put off writing by doing other things, or do I write to avoid doing other things? Both.
After all, I won’t get fired if I fail to send in a story submission for an anthology whose deadline whooshed past me while I was grading student essays or even grocery shopping, cooking & cleaning up dog poo. (Realistically, I probably wouldn’t get fired for putting off the grading for a few days, but sometimes the day job has to take priority. And the other stuff doesn’t really need to be explained.)
Last week, I did something that is more-or-less against my Principles. (These are like the barb-wire fences of my childhood in Idaho. I liked testing their stretch to find out if I could get under or over them without getting stuck.)
A gothic story was lurking in the back of my mind, and wouldn’t go away. It began to take shape in mid-March when I was on a bus trip for three hours with my spouse to attend the annual convention of the NDP (New Democratic Party, farthest-left of the mainstream Canadian political parties). A call-for-submissions inspired an image of a river rushing musically over rocks – or something else? I knew there was something down there.
In real life, Spouse & I were going to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, known as the “Bridge City” because the North Saskatchewan River winds through it, with numerous bridges. By the time we got there, I knew the something under the river in my mind was a body that had been there for a generation, undetected.
The atmosphere of this story was so strong that for brief moments, I felt as though I had read it somewhere. Then I remembered that I hadn’t written it yet.
Soon the deadline was breathing down my neck, so I sent the editor an email, asking for a deadline extension. She graciously responded: “Because it’s you” (with winking smiley-face). After that, finishing the story a.s.a.p. became a serious obligation. I couldn’t leave that body under the river for months or years before figuring out how it got there.
So I cancelled a class. Bad me. But it was just one class.
If/when everything I’ve ever done is weighed by some disapproving angel on the Day of Judgment, this cancelled class will probably earn me a little tick mark in the list. But it probably wouldn’t be enough to open the trapdoor that would plunge me to the Fiery Depths. That would be too gothic.
That whole day, I was in the Zone, the one writers like to live in. I wrote & wrote. (Technically, I typed & typed.) The maximum word count was 6500 words, and I watched as my word count went up and the plot thickened. At 3500, I realized I was more than halfway through, and worried that I might not be able to stay under the wire. Well then, I thought, something might have to be pulled out. Time for that later.
By evening, the story was wrapped up at slightly over 6K. Yes!
I forced myself to put off sending it to the editor as soon as the last period was in place. This is the time when a little procrastination is a very good idea. I knew that what looked brilliant to me in the moment would probably make me groan later on. (Why did I leave that awkward phrase in? And why did I use the same cheesy word twice in one paragraph?)
Spouse asked if I planned to cook supper.
Yes, I said, as soon as my story is really finished. I hoped she would chill out and snack on leftover Easter candy.
I reread the story, made some changes, and fired it off.
Then I was assailed by doubt, much like a gothic heroine being accosted by a sinister figure in a swirling cape. Point of View: the story starts out in third-person omniscient, but morphs into third-person limited when the heroine emerges from childhood into adolescence. I was sure the editor would reject the story for being an incoherent mess.
And then there was the creepiness factor: the call-for-submissions called for “dark erotica.” Was my story both dark enough and sexy enough? I knew it would probably be too dark for Spouse, which seemed like a sign that I was on the right track, but did the editor want the murders to be described in gory detail? Or would that kind of melodrama make my story as over-the-top funny as The Rocky Horror Picture Show?
And besides all this, there is some dubious-age-of-consent sex. None of the characters have a clear age, but they are both young. How worried would the editor be about accepting a story that could possibly be interpreted as child porn? (But then, said my Common Sense, a reader who would read my story thus would probably run screaming from the whole anthology.)
Well, I thought, I just have to consider doing a massive rewrite after the editor rejects the story. I’ll have plenty of time to consider sending it somewhere else.
Obviously I can’t write, I thought, which is really too bad since I am on-schedule to teach a creative writing class in September. What a fraud I am. At least I can do laundry and clean up after our pets, who lack human discernment. Being loved by animals probably doesn’t outweigh cancelling a class.
The day after I sent off my story, the editor sent me an email: “Consider your story shortlisted.” O miracle! O sudden, unexpected resolution of complications!
I think I should spend more time putting off everything else so I can write.
*****************
Do I put off writing by doing other things, or do I write to avoid doing other things? Both.
After all, I won’t get fired if I fail to send in a story submission for an anthology whose deadline whooshed past me while I was grading student essays or even grocery shopping, cooking & cleaning up dog poo. (Realistically, I probably wouldn’t get fired for putting off the grading for a few days, but sometimes the day job has to take priority. And the other stuff doesn’t really need to be explained.)
Last week, I did something that is more-or-less against my Principles. (These are like the barb-wire fences of my childhood in Idaho. I liked testing their stretch to find out if I could get under or over them without getting stuck.)
A gothic story was lurking in the back of my mind, and wouldn’t go away. It began to take shape in mid-March when I was on a bus trip for three hours with my spouse to attend the annual convention of the NDP (New Democratic Party, farthest-left of the mainstream Canadian political parties). A call-for-submissions inspired an image of a river rushing musically over rocks – or something else? I knew there was something down there.
In real life, Spouse & I were going to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, known as the “Bridge City” because the North Saskatchewan River winds through it, with numerous bridges. By the time we got there, I knew the something under the river in my mind was a body that had been there for a generation, undetected.
The atmosphere of this story was so strong that for brief moments, I felt as though I had read it somewhere. Then I remembered that I hadn’t written it yet.
Soon the deadline was breathing down my neck, so I sent the editor an email, asking for a deadline extension. She graciously responded: “Because it’s you” (with winking smiley-face). After that, finishing the story a.s.a.p. became a serious obligation. I couldn’t leave that body under the river for months or years before figuring out how it got there.
So I cancelled a class. Bad me. But it was just one class.
If/when everything I’ve ever done is weighed by some disapproving angel on the Day of Judgment, this cancelled class will probably earn me a little tick mark in the list. But it probably wouldn’t be enough to open the trapdoor that would plunge me to the Fiery Depths. That would be too gothic.
That whole day, I was in the Zone, the one writers like to live in. I wrote & wrote. (Technically, I typed & typed.) The maximum word count was 6500 words, and I watched as my word count went up and the plot thickened. At 3500, I realized I was more than halfway through, and worried that I might not be able to stay under the wire. Well then, I thought, something might have to be pulled out. Time for that later.
By evening, the story was wrapped up at slightly over 6K. Yes!
I forced myself to put off sending it to the editor as soon as the last period was in place. This is the time when a little procrastination is a very good idea. I knew that what looked brilliant to me in the moment would probably make me groan later on. (Why did I leave that awkward phrase in? And why did I use the same cheesy word twice in one paragraph?)
Spouse asked if I planned to cook supper.
Yes, I said, as soon as my story is really finished. I hoped she would chill out and snack on leftover Easter candy.
I reread the story, made some changes, and fired it off.
Then I was assailed by doubt, much like a gothic heroine being accosted by a sinister figure in a swirling cape. Point of View: the story starts out in third-person omniscient, but morphs into third-person limited when the heroine emerges from childhood into adolescence. I was sure the editor would reject the story for being an incoherent mess.
And then there was the creepiness factor: the call-for-submissions called for “dark erotica.” Was my story both dark enough and sexy enough? I knew it would probably be too dark for Spouse, which seemed like a sign that I was on the right track, but did the editor want the murders to be described in gory detail? Or would that kind of melodrama make my story as over-the-top funny as The Rocky Horror Picture Show?
And besides all this, there is some dubious-age-of-consent sex. None of the characters have a clear age, but they are both young. How worried would the editor be about accepting a story that could possibly be interpreted as child porn? (But then, said my Common Sense, a reader who would read my story thus would probably run screaming from the whole anthology.)
Well, I thought, I just have to consider doing a massive rewrite after the editor rejects the story. I’ll have plenty of time to consider sending it somewhere else.
Obviously I can’t write, I thought, which is really too bad since I am on-schedule to teach a creative writing class in September. What a fraud I am. At least I can do laundry and clean up after our pets, who lack human discernment. Being loved by animals probably doesn’t outweigh cancelling a class.
The day after I sent off my story, the editor sent me an email: “Consider your story shortlisted.” O miracle! O sudden, unexpected resolution of complications!
I think I should spend more time putting off everything else so I can write.
Friday, July 8, 2011
When Wish Becomes Will
One of my favorite words is "free"-- it is part of so many wonderful words and phrases: free spirit, freelance, carefree, free will, free gift with purchase, free to good home, free to be me, freestyle... and, of course, freedom. Janis Joplin sang, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." True enough. When you've hit rock bottom or banged your head against a brick wall or been told "No, you can't do that" for the hundredth time, maybe that is the moment when you're truly free.
I watch my 19-month old toddler experience the world around him. Everything is new and exciting, I watch his eyes widen in wonder at the simplest things, hear him catch his breath at every new discovery. He is untamed, a wild thing. He seems most free after his bath, when he's scampering about on my bed like a monkey, naked and joyous. It's in those moments when I realize how free his spirit truly is-- without self-doubt or worry or concerns about the future to bog him down and box him in.
I forget what that kind of freedom is like, though I call myself a free spirit. I forget that the external voices of judgement and the internal voices of doubt don't control me unless I let them. It's the way of things, I suppose, to forget our limitless potential and the limitless possibilities available to us. I know I forget mine all the time. I say things-- or nod when other people say things-- that deep down I don't even believe. Things that begin, "I'm too old" or "I really can't" or "Maybe" or "I wish." Words can be as limiting as fear. Often, those words are nothing more than expressions of fear. And freedom is squeezed into a smaller and smaller space and labeled a luxury.
Limitless-- it's a daunting word. Exhausting, even. If my life is limitless and I'm not taking advantage of it, what does that say about me? So I put the obstacles in front of me, look for the road blocks most likely to slow me down, put the limits on myself where none need exist. And then I complain about feeling constrained by time and exhaustion and pregnancy and the baby's schedule and the husband's career and life in the suburbs and publishers who aren't acquiring what I write... and... and... and...
Freedom is scary, freedom is about exercising free will. It's about letting go-- not holding on. It's about making choices and not just letting life happen. It's embracing the moment instead of lamenting the moments I've let pass me by. I lose myself in my writing, in my child, in my daydreams. Those are my moments of greatest freedom-- when my world shrinks to the words on the screen, the small hand on my cheek, the mental shift from "I wish" to "I will." That's my freedom. What's yours?
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