Back down to earth

I was talking to someone recently and they brought me down quite a bit.

Here’s what happened:

we were talking about books and stuff and I told them that I am a published author myself. The first response was positive. A bit of praise and admiration, things that please the soul. But then they asked how many books I’ve published. I said 7 with the 8th on its way. The response changed. That’s a lot, they said. I nodded, still a knot of pride in my belly. Can your books be found in bookstores, they asked. I said no, but they are in the National Library. Ah, was the reply. So how many have you sold. Unease was mixing with pride, quickly erased by shame. Enough, they are in private libraries worldwide, I said. My tone was changing, I became more defiant. They grinned and went for the kill. You know, maybe after 8 books and no recognition at all you should give up; accept that you are not the writer you think you are. That hurt. A lot. I made fun of the situation like I always do and excused myself.

On the heels of that follows another similar situation. Someone bought all my books, they have the complete works of Catherine Tricarico on their shelves. Turns out, even after years of talking and promising they would write a review, they never read a word in those books. They are just a collection on a shelf. and I can’t help but wonder if it is like that because the other person was right.

It’s Monday, it’s very early. And I feel a bit defeated already.

Have a great week

xx