Tag: self-publishing

  • My echo chamber

    My echo chamber

    For what feels like an eternity, I’ve been grappling with whether I have anything of substance to share beyond my first novel. Will it be an indulgent rant of self-pity, or will it honour the human struggle? Am I invested in it the way I was with the first novel? Or is the tedious repetition of adult themes in my life that inspires my writing just too much adulting for most who encounter its narrative?

    Such thoughts have plagued me for a long time now. Some inspired by genuine self-doubt, but most spawned by the weight of a colourful life that most could not bear. Thinking aloud reinforces the imposter syndrome, and speaking into a void reminds me that I’m my only echo chamber.

    Being cryptic is a natural disposition. A disposition that I expended every effort in my life to decode so that I could convey a coherent thought to any who would listen. My efforts appear to have resulted in an over achievement. Where once my challenge was in articulating my thoughts, I now stand accused of communicating in ways that are too complex. In my efforts to be as succinct as possible, it seems I’ve grown too dense in a single expression to the point of fatigue for the listener.

    Balance between the two is what I’ve sought through my writing. Being able to read within the perceived mindset of the reader has offered me the opportunity to develop depth to my echo chamber. But, it’s still my echo chamber, manned by me, and occupied by none else. My objectivity is therefore subjective, and my perspective unreliable.

    Therefore, I must dig deep into any snippet of feedback that I receive, trying to understand what is meant in the restrained or lethargic feedback that is spilled, almost hesitantly, as if a burden. Analysing and unpacking, decrypting and translating, finally leaving me with a glimpse of the truth behind the vague words offered as a description of how my writing may have been experienced. But I’m painfully aware that it’s still my echo chamber, manned only by me. Therefore none of its contemplations provide certainty or confidence. It only provides entry to yet another rabbit hole of doubt and over thinking.

    Will I write again? I think I may. Will it be more impactful than the first attempt? I’m not sure. But I’m curious to know. And that curiosity can be satisfied in one way only. I must write, and I must share. My echo chamber is an indulgence of self-pity that holds little value and no promise.

    The uncertainty of life must be celebrated, if not honoured. Without it, we’d be complacent beings disconnected from our souls, and each other. It is our collective fears that create the greatest moments of connectedness when we rise above those uncertainties, rather than surrendering to it.

    The answer, I guess, is clear. I should (must?) not abandon my story now. There is still much to be told, and if I truly believe that it is more important to tell my story than it is for my story to be heard, then it’s clear that the sequel to my novel is not to be doubted. Instead, it must be embraced with more grit and tenacity than the first.

    I may not have a soul to honour in the sequel, but I do have a narrator to respect, if not appreciate. This is more difficult than honouring another. It demands that I find that elusive balance between confidence and conceit, or self-worth and arrogance. In a world that defines the victim as the hero and the critical thinker as the oppressor, finding balance grows ever more elusive.

  • A Beautiful Mess

    A Beautiful Mess

    The last year has been a beautiful mess. It has been a year of pushing boundaries and testing long-held truths. People, relationships, skills, passions, and even hobbies all came under close scrutiny as I peeled away the layers of assumptions that coated them over the years to test whether they still served me well, or at all.

    I tested my hand at mindful living, more so at carving my own path through the forest and the lessons that I learnt along the way, most of which are still incomplete, have unlocked new realities and resurfaced old joys. My sense of self continues to evolve, almost on a daily basis. Accepting a truth about my reality on one day seems foolhardy or delusional on another. But in between it all there has been a lightness in my steps that has been absent from my gait for decades.

    I lost myself to life over the decades. Courting authenticity with a naive mind can be taxing and expensive. Living out my convictions has increased the isolation around me. Only, it’s an isolation that holds much peace despite the loneliness that it threatens to share. The peace is the absence of expectations, except for the moments that the capitalist structures around me tear away at my being through the yoke that still weighs down on my shoulders. The realisation that what feeds the soul doesn’t feed the belly intensifies each day.

    Uplifting quotes or extended hands to those that find relief in its offering falls short of its reciprocation of upliftment. The multitude of needy hands reaching out while their eyes look defiantly away cuts short any embrace that might once have offered some fulfillment. Fulfillment has been replaced by servitude and servitude proves to be no more than a payment of debt. Social debts and divine rights are pervasive. Harmony and a divine handhold not so much.

    The unbeaten path always promised solitude. Perhaps that is the only promise that has been fulfilled. Everything else carries with it the weight of expectation or reciprocation. Distractions and virtual embraces offer more comfort than the distracted ones around us. Do we connect virtually because we see each other more clearly without the social stigmas and classes present, or do we connect virtually because it is the only connection that is accessible?

    I no longer serve the social structures that I once courted, and along with it gave up any hope of finding the support that this new life demands I have. This used to be a cryptic space but I’ve realised that any confusion or mystery resulted only from my hope that there was more to be enjoyed, or acquired. Seeing the social constructs for what they are leaves little room for expectation, or even hope. Hope is only relevant in a symbiotic relationship, not a cannibalistic mutually exclusive one. Such has been the interaction between society and I for as long as life has held any promise beyond the immediate breath. Serving the divine is all that keeps me tethered to such contracts.

    This beautiful mess is the freedom that such realisations and independence endows. The absence of belonging and only the belonging to absence. It once seemed so vapid in its concept but has proven to be utterly grounding in its experience.

  • Smashing Writer’s Block

    Smashing Writer’s Block

    I always advised others to get over writer’s block by writing about it. This morning seems to demand that I take some of my own advice. Fair warning then that this post may appear incoherent and nonsensical, but only to you. To me, it will probably be a perfect reflection of the madness that stirs within. We all have such madness, but I think the surrounding of friends or family, or just familiar recognition of who we appear to be subdues the madness because when we feel recognised, we have less reason to demand recognition of what stirs beneath the surface. Most of us hide it, some over-emphasise it, and some of us, the odd few, try to leverage it to feed our passion without appearing totally insane.

    I’m not quite sure which category I fit into this morning. Writing this novel that is inspired by true events from my life makes for some interesting introspection. Regrets threaten to surface as I find myself looking with fresh eyes at incidents from many years ago that I always assumed to have played out differently. Catharsis has nothing to do with it, nor does an indulgence of the ego. It’s the stark realisations or a gentleness of judgement that is possible now but felt unreasonable or unjustified then. Trying to understand the most disruptive influences in my life often leads to realising that they were also the most constructive. Not because they meant to be, but because of what about me was forced to grow because of who they were .

    We leave things behind because we find them unpleasant, not because we find them endearing or cherish-able. The same is true for relationships. Perhaps this is why it is more difficult to recall the good times when you focused on the bad times for so long. Idealism can taint judgement and spawn good intentions that are disastrous at times. Good intentions don’t always result in wholesome outcomes. Sometimes it causes more destruction than any bad intention ever could.

    Speaking of idealism, I am reminded about my own quote recently that claimed that there are no bad intentions, only poorly informed decisions. This is more true and real for me this morning than it was when I wrote that a few weeks ago. Even when we go about deliberately wanting to cause harm or pain, the motivation to do so is grounded in a need to avenge a wrong, or to teach a lesson, both of which are inherently good intentions. Understanding and compassion will probably improve the method we use when setting out to teach someone a lesson, but understanding and compassion are seldom traits that we court during moments of despair or disappointment. Reclaiming our significance is all that seems to matter, which is why regrets only follow after destroying the significance that we fought so hard to claim.

    Being an anomaly of society has its romantic connotations but only until the moment that human connection is needed, or desired. It’s impossible to connect with normal when you’re an anomaly. Normal appears boring and shallow, or distracted at best, and being anomalous feels dysfunctional in a society that is normalised by tradition, culture, or social standing. Each time I thought I found a place for myself in this world, I discovered that I was simply a placeholder for someone else instead. I hate tokens and trinkets because they rarely have any inherent value other than the sentiment that we endow on them. Being anomalous feels like that on most days.

    Self-pity is pitiful, and it also assumes that there is something worthy of pity. Therefore, true self-pity can’t exist, and any appearance of self-pity must therefore be a desperation for attention or affection, or both, rather than any sense of remorse or regret. No one truly believes that they are pitiful, or useless. Any professions of the same is nothing more than a desire to find someone to disagree with them.

    Writer’s block is for writers. But we’re all writers of our own story, with some of us having the requisite level of narcissism to believe that our story is worth sharing. Narcissism itself is not a bad thing. We all have it in us. It starts out with believing that we’re worthy, and gets out of hand when we believe that we’re more worthy than others. Believing in your worth is a healthy form of narcissism, because anything less would be self-deprecation which is a sign of ingratitude. Therefore, it suggests that a narcissist is potentially more grateful than one who appears humble. Now there’s something to ponder on cold nights and warm hearths.

    My reasons for writing and sharing what I write sways between wanting to contribute towards improving the world we live in, and wanting to point out the obvious to the oblivious so that I can see the a-ha moments on their faces as I feel significant in knowing that I caused it. The truth is probably somewhere between those two ideals. I’d rather continue rambling than facing that novel again right now. It feels like much ado about nothing, personified.

    Similar to the first book that I wrote. Great feedback from those that found the tenacity to read it to the end, but dismissive remarks of its complexity from those that lack the conviction to look closer, at themselves more than at me. Perhaps the greatest lesson that I’ve learnt from my journey towards becoming a writer in my own right is that unless you come from a family with a strong tradition in a similar field, you will be the odd one out that no one else gets. Chances are therefore also good that writers are most often middle-children or an only child because those with familiar or kindred spirits have less reason to articulate their soul’s desires or aspirations in their search for peace.

    The madness must abate. Alas, I have deadlines and bills to pay. The cynic in me must rest so that the demands of a practically boring and slavish existence can prevail in order to maintain the semblance of sanity that society pretends to hold.

  • To Tell Your Story

    To Tell Your Story

    After an insightful and engaging workshop that lasted all week, I found myself contemplating whether I have a story worth sharing. There are far more intriguing and gut wrenching stories than my own, and no shortage of them being from my own demographic as well. So I was forced to consider why mine is any different.

    To understand why I found reason to question this, you need to be aware of my aversion to writing for the sake of getting attention, or sharing stories to get sympathy. I think deliberate sensationalism is tantamount to selling your soul, and publishing a book so that you can get the accolade of being a published author is only tainting the profession more than self-publishing already has. This probably sounds hypocritical from someone that just self-published their own book. (By the way, it’s called The Egosystem and you can find more info about it from the link on my homepage).

    Cheekiness aside, accessibility to platforms like self-publishing is great for people that have a sense of pride in their work. People who don’t live their lives believing that everything they do is inspired, and everything they say is inspiring. It’s for people who have a healthy level of doubt and care enough to question the quality and value of what they’re putting out there. I’m not suggesting that they must have a perfected product before hitting publish! Not at all. But when I contrast that against the so-called writers that brag about the 42 or 50 books that they self-published just last year alone, I must question the quality and the seriousness with which they’re pursuing their craft.

    Self-publishing is a blessing for writers that don’t have the funds, resources, or connections to get a publisher to take on their project. It’s also great for someone that has something of value to share but doesn’t have the network of support or means to get professional services before releasing their publication. However, if you have the ability to self-publish, then you also have the ability to do research and fact-checking. You have the resources and skill to produce more than just a dreadful cover that looks like a 10-year old’s doodle in PowerPoint, and you definitely have the ability and tools to understand the basics of plagiarism.

    The problem with people that don’t take these basics seriously is that apart from destroying their credibility as writers, they fill up the online stores with such a huge load of absolute crap that the good stuff gets buried so deep that it is next to impossible to find. That means that any writer that takes their craft seriously will have to spend that much more on marketing and promos, and put in that much more effort just to find an audience. Contrary to common belief, word of mouth is not as viral or available as many world like to believe it is.

    Every indie author dreams of publishing their book and then getting friends, relatives, and acquaintances to buy it, read it and tell everyone that they know how amazing the book was, and in that way sell enough copies to get the attention of a major publishing house so that they stand a chance of hitting the big time. If that ever does happen, there is more fluke involved than there is a well thought out plan to make it happen. Like many other indie authors, I also got a rude awakening when I realised how expensive social media advertising is, and how unsustainable paid advertisements are for getting and keeping your audience’s attention for long enough for them to make a buying decision. Unless you have a small fortune (preferably a large one) to invest in promoting your book, there is a good chance that it will remain a well kept secret, all thanks to the flippant writers that think that being able to publish without restraint is a license to dump garbage on the Internet.

    Beyond the above challenges, the key challenge facing a new writer is finding the confidence to share their story because with the millions of books out there already, chances are good that a similar or better story has already been told. What I’ve realised this week is that it’s not just the story that matters. It’s so much more including the authenticity in your narration, your unique expression, and of course a little bit of luck and a thick skin that all come together to give you a fighting chance of producing a book that more than just a few people will be willing to pay to read.

    If you have enough self respect to care about putting your name against a piece of work intended for the enjoyment or benefit of others, and you believe in the value of the story that you want to share, then share it, but be authentic in your expression and don’t try to be someone else. And most importantly, show due respect to your intended readers by producing a quality piece of work and not something that resulted from a wet dream of fame and fortune because you hope to stumble upon the correct numbers for the lottery after publishing.

    (This probably sounds arrogant and condescending to many, but I don’t care because liberalism holds no promise for those wishing to master their craft, and offers no direction for those seeking a new path).

  • That Book I Promised for So Long

    That Book I Promised for So Long

    For years now, I’ve been contemplating writing that book. It started, stopped, started, and stopped again…and ran through that cycle a few more times. A couple of years ago I finally gave it meaningful consideration and started out with a collection of essays that I thought would be a reasonable first stab at that book.

    I reworked it, reformatted it, and did all sorts of things with it, until early this year when I decided to rewrite it from scratch. What was to be a collection of essays morphed into my obsession called The Egosystem. It is the distilled wisdom of everything I have been writing about for more than 10 years on this and other blogs.

    The Egosystem finally gives a shape and a form to the thought processes that I go through day in and day out, which informs my observations, insights, and quirks about life, love, and laughter. It takes the reader through a gentle process of unpacking the way our emotions are strung together, without being prescriptive, or presumptuous in the process. It simply lays bare the inner workings of our minds, so that we can become aware of why we are the way we are. It is only once this realisation is achieved that we can hope to make more informed and effective decisions about which path we wish to take.

    Until we reach this point of awareness, we are simply responding to subconscious triggers and emotional needs without truly embracing the power of being present in the moments that shape our lives. The Egosystem is the foundation of who we are as human beings, and defines in a non-academic way, a synopsis of the human condition that wears so many of us down.

    I hope that this will be the first of many books that I write, because after completing this piece of work I cannot imagine myself doing anything else with such conviction. The application of The Egosystem is so versatile that it spawns variations that are begging to be explored. One of those that must receive attention soonest is how the Egosystem plays out in failed relationships specifically, and the disastrous effect that such failures often have on innocent children caught up in the sway as collateral damage.

    Perhaps, in some strange way, it is a calling that I needed to answer given my first hand experiences at such human dysfunction. This was a book that was begging to be written, and it feels like it has defined the beginning of a whole new journey in my life. A journey that may make the sum of my experiences to date nothing more than reference material for the true purpose of my being.

    I hope that you will find familiarity and insight in The Egosystem, and that it will allow you to take back control of your emotions, your life,  and your love. Whether it be for another, for some material objective, or for a creative passion. Living through such endeavours without being able to fully immerse yourself in it can be a very unsettling experience. It taints the product of our labour, and further weighs down on the clutter that keeps us distracted in the back of our minds.

    Living with conviction and loving with sincerity. It the greatest gift we could give ourselves, and the ones we love, because anything less is cheating life while death approaches.

    To get your copy, please find details of the book on the page dedication to The Egosystem on this blog, or on my main website at zaidismail.com.

    Thank you to everyone that has followed, and often shared my journey to this point over the years. With gratitude, Zaid.