Recently I’ve been a flurry of creativity and purpose. I’ve completed two stories that had been relegated to the forgotten WIP pile. I’d signed up for NaNoWriMo and have diligently worked on completing another forgotten WIP. Also, I’ve recently received my rights back for three of my stories and began the process of self publishing them. I’ve been on fire and it has been fabulous.
Unfortunately, I was burning brightly until a huge bucket of reality came and doused my flame. At this point when an email goes around about “pirates” posting authors work I usually numbly go through the motions of making sure my stuff isn’t up on the site and if so requesting a take down notice. While prepping myself for the laborious process of seeking out my work and making sure it can’t be stolen anymore I came to a realization, I’m an author people like to read but don’t want to pay for.
It’s okay to curl up with one of my books, laugh over the prose I intended to be witty and cry at the parts that are supposed to elicit tears. My heroes provide the perfect amount of sexy, while my heroines are smartly sassy, giving the hero a run for his money. I get tucked away into folders on people’s tablets and computers to be revisited again and again, and instead of being cherished, valued and spoken about in reverent tones, I am the author that gets her number scrolled on the bathroom wall, with the promise of a good time for anyone that comes along.
This post isn’t about the money I lose or the distinction between real fans and thieves. This post is about being put in a position that I’ve never experienced before. I’ve never been the woman that is good enough to give someone pleasure but not good enough to have the time she spends pleasuring that person valued. I’ve never been the good time girl that gets passed around without thought to her feelings and wellbeing. I have never been made to feel like a whore who’s services were co-opted by a pimp that has no regard for her well being. I have never felt those things until I sought to engage in an activity that brings me joy.This post isn’t about the money, this post isn’t about the disrespect, this post is about me being sad I’m being made to feel like I’m not worthy enough.
I’m resilient in the end, so even though this post isn’t about what I want it to be (me focusing on creating more stories), it’s still a post that needed to be written. I’ll be a little blue, send out my take down notices, and reconcile myself to the fact I’m good enough to read but not good enough to buy by some.