I spent years wanting to be a writer but not really wanting to learn to write. I wanted the respect, the interested looks, and to walk into a bookstore and casually whisper to a nearby shopper, “Psst. I wrote that.” Cool right? Unfortunately, that is not how it works.

For some reason no books were publishing themselves in my name as I sat idly by. So, having finally learned a lesson, I set to writing. I knew I didn’t want to deal with traditional publishing. I was too green. Plus, I wanted to learn the publishing process on my own. My mindset was that I would be a published writer come hell or high water. What was the lesson set my writing feet in motion?

There is one thing every single writer has in common: they write. That is step one. Of course, here at Prose., most of you are accomplishing step one every single day. Good work.

Step two is sticking with one project until it is ready to be seen by the world. This can be difficult. It takes over a month, usually, to write the first draft of a novel. That timeline depends on the story’s length and the writer’s schedule, it often takes even longer. Then there is the time spent editing, revising, proofreading, and revising again. Want to know what tedious feels like? Write, edit, and revise your own novel. I will probably never read one of my published books again. I’ve already read each of them five or six times when they come to market.

Step two is the step of discipline. Sticking with your work until it is ready for another set of eyes.

Step three is the step of courage, showing your work to another person. Again, because of Prose., we are used to this kind of thing. I recommend having at least one beta reader, preferably two, to find the inconsistencies in your work. Beta readers read your book in the early stages and give you feedback. There are always little problems the writer cannot see because they are too close to the story. That’s why it is important to become friends with other writers, but I will get to that a little later.

Step four is making the final story revisions (yep, you need to read the whole thing again) and finding a proofreader. Some writers are able to do their own proofreading, and good for them. They have my envy. I have trouble finding my own mistakes. I figure the more time that is spent on my manuscript, the better it will be. Having published novels both ways, with just my time invested and with my time plus three other people’s time invested, I assure you this is true.

Step five, your novel is ready for formatting. I did my first novel entirely for free (including my own proofreading, which was a nightmare). I formatted it with whatever word processing program came free with the version of Windows I had back then. For the second novel, I broke down and bought Microsoft Word. It has all the functions necessary to properly format an e-book and a paperback. Please let me know if there is more interest in formatting an e-book and a paperback, it is something I love to do and will happily dedicate an entire blog post to it.

For step six you upload the manuscript and cover. I have created my own covers and worked with a graphic designer. I think it all depends on the book. For “The Bad” and “Sales for Authors,” I did it myself. For “The Dead Don’t Speak,” and when I published “Tanglefoot” by Donna Myhrer, I worked with a graphic designer. Both methods worked out well.

Step seven is the most time consuming thing you will do as an independent author: promote your book. Promotion is a never-ending effort when you publish your own work. My advice is to be shameless in your efforts. Do not hesitate to mention your books, post about them online, and actively seek new opportunities as a writer. Heck, doing exactly that landed me this blogging gig with Prose. Plus, Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, and Edgar Allan Poe were shameless self-promoters, so consider yourself in good company.

When I mentioned beta reading earlier, I said it was good to make friends with your fellow writers. Now that it is time to promote your work, having writer friends is even better. Your fellow self-publishing authors are an invaluable resource. They know things you do not, they have tried things you hadn’t ever thought of, and they are continually looking for new ways to get the word out about their work, too.

I’ve found two effective avenues to meeting fellow writers.

One is Twitter, writers are all over Twitter. The second is by participating in Facebook book launch parties. There are many, many, many writers' groups on Facebook. Keep an eye on their newsfeed and you will find people asking for volunteers for online book launches. There is a book about Facebook launch parties, where authors do “takeovers.” The book is called, “Your Turn! How to do a Facebook Takeover Like a Boss” by Claudette Melanson.

Once again, because you are already on Prose., you have an advantage over someone like me, when I first started. Prose. is a community of writers. This is a terrific place to make new friends. If you don’t know who to approach or how to not sound like a stalker, send me a message. I am a self-publishing author and I am always looking for new friends. I am eager to connect as well as connect you with people I know.

The bottom line is, if you want to be a writer, then be a writer.

All you need to have to be published is a computer, the internet, and a can-do attitude. Cultivating a positive attitude is the single most important thing a beginning writer can do. It is what keeps you in the game. It increases optimism, helps you see opportunity in failure, and generally keeps the spirits up. I would not be an author without it. If I let a setback or unexpected problem get me down, I would have given up before my first book was ever published.

Until next time...

-Kendall Bailey

...

To view the article, with full references and clickable links, please visit The Official Prose. Blog this afternoon at: blog.theprose.com/blog. Be sure also to follow Kendall here and on Twitter @KBaileyWriter.

11.48 pm. age 10. day unknown.

fear swoops up and engulfs me, suddenly a solid and tangible thing that slams my body up and out of bed, head pounding like a wave crashing and i'm drowning and help...

"m-mom..."

i had traveled through the whole dark house for this. for her to be asleep.

"mom--"

"what?? oh..."

"something's wrong. i can't sleep. something...something, i mean, it's...i'm freaking out and i wanna cry for no reason."

"it's okay sweetie, you're okay. i'll take you back to bed."

we walk silently through the house that doesn't seem so dark anymore. thank god she's so forgiving. other parents, no way. like my dad. he would never help me like that. the best he can do is stay out of it, and i want to keep it that way.

- - - -

12.53 pm. age 14. market day.

"Hey wait--"

I cut myself off as my friends walk ahead of me. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I decide it's useless to care. Walk tall, head up. Pretend you're fine.

"Hey," I say to my closest friend. Whatever. I'm a ghost.

Try again.

"I'm going to a concert with my cousin in October and--"

"Ooo, which one?"

"Twenty one pilots."

"Ahhh! You know I'm going to Fall Out Boy also."

"Really?"

"Yeah, with my friend from school."

"Oh. When?"

"Next month."

Whatever. It's not like I took her to a concert last year and she didn't thank me, or anything.

I don't say that, though.

I want to, but I don't. I'm shutting up, that number one rule in the book I read.

Why am I such a nerd.

We approach a large, bustling group of EW. People I know. Well, I know them, but of course they don't know I exist.

Count off.

The quarterback-- eye roll.

Nasty girl-- yuck, no.

Her ex (actually, who knows what they're doing?)-- barf. I'll be expected to like him in high school.

The Californian-- oh. I didn't know he was here. But, overrated.

Basic crowd of worshipping friends-- stab me with a spork.

And the funny thing is?

Each one of my own friends goes off talking to one of them, leaving me a few feet away with a look of pure fear and disgust on my face.

Too bad no one is talking to me.

Because I'm not talking to any of them.

- - - -

4:16 pm. age 14. market day.

"EXTERMINATE. EXTERMINATE."

"There's the ringtone," my newest friend in a Dalek shirt says, pulling out his iPhone. My other newest friend smiles. In the last few hours I've discovered their love for Doctor Who, my love for the two of them, and our ability as a group to eat a pound of curly fries.

"How do you say it? Is it 'daahh-leks,' or 'da-lix?' Because I think 10 says it the first way and 11 says it the second way, but I don't know.."

For a supposedly popular girl, she's quite active in the fandom. And it's not like I didn't know either of them before. It's just now that we're all being introduced, now that the glue is gone. The glue, meaning the group of people we all were connected by. But now we're connected by ourselves. I look up at the sky.

I think they fixed me.

Sugar coated lies,

Rainbows deny darkness light,

Young minds tricked open

Time - the realist,

Unravels truths, salt lingers

Black consumes wonder

Age ripens fresh souls

Decay shuts down open doors

Innocence unfound

Maturity reigns

Lies once believed, now retold

To sparkling wide eyes

Darkness envelopes your vision

Perhaps I’ll never understand you’re position

And the only way I can gift you

What you ought to have been given,

What should have been rightfully yours,

What I, and others like me take granted for

Perhaps the only way I can gift you

Sight

Is through

Sound

Touch

Taste

Why you’ve been denied, precious sight

You and I will never know

I can stand here, apologizing like the rest

While your blood boils at my chirpy zest

For something over which we have no control

Or, I can tell you what your timid heart has longed to know

I can try to make your life

Colorful, one color at a time

Today, I speak of the color of sacrifice

Give me your hands, chilled to the bone

Do not move, believe in me

Do you feel, this strange comfort

Of warmness healing your frozen fingers?

Be careful not to touch the flame

For, burning, scorching, searing heat

Will wring defeat

Upon your gentle, misgiving touch

These feelings of extremes

Are one and the same

This my friend, is orange

Come with me, to the great outdoors

Do you hear the chirping birds?

Listen to the rustling of leaves

Swaying with the gentle breeze

Bask in the glory of the wondrous evening

The Sun no longer high up, far above

Right now, the Sun is sinking down

Slowly, but oh so surely

Today has reached it’s near demise

The sounds you hear, is Nature’s voice

Bidding adieu to the blazing ball of fire

Which, at this moment, is in level with you

The skies mark their respect, to the glorious Sun

Their shade no longer different, but one

This right here, my dear, is orange

Vibrant orange, in all it’s incredible beauty

Is all around you,

It’s in the birds you hear, the wind you feel

This is the power of orange’s daily ordeal

Wait a moment, I’ll get you something special

Now come inside, here’s your surprise

I plucked it from the tree

You heard swaying in the wind

Put it in your mouth, before it drips

It’s essence all over your fingertips

Do you taste the sourness?

Do you taste the sweetness?

Perhaps you already know that this is an orange

But do remember that

The union of sweet and sour

Is the truth about this vibrant color

Perfectly captured, in a spherical fruit

It’s time to rest, do get some sleep

Who knows? Maybe you’ll get to see

Orange in all it’s sanctity

In your adventurous dreams

Good night

Tomorrow, I’ll make you see

Another color with me

We dance

Among the stardust

That is the remnants

Of our dreams.

And if we

Close our eyes

And imagine

As hard as we can

We should be

Able to feel the

Echoes of the

Us we

Used to be

The Us that

Still dances

Among the stars

That haven't

Shattered

Yet.

Allen Welty-Green's rock opera "Sisyphus", based on a short story I wrote in high school, is an affectionate send-up of the Rock Messiah concept. This song didn't make the cut to be included in the opera, and still has no melody, but I am fond of it anyway; I used to be that kid who looked for deep hidden meanings between the grooves of his rock hero's records, so if I seem to be laughing at anyone, be assured that it's myself...

I am none and I am all; the Harbinger

I have come to spread the call of Sisyphus

We all have a secret stone

Made of fear and doubt we roll

Sisyphus and he alone

Can help us climb the mountain of despair

So if you have ears to ear, seek Sisyphus

He has brought the Word to us in imagery and song

All his verses point the way

To hurl our stones from off the mountain

Only listen to him, and belong

For the ones who have been freed by Sisyphus

He asks nothing more of you than listening

To his secrets, plain to discover

Hidden on the album covers

And graven in the lines of vinyl

On his sacred tablets--turn them on!

(A long wild electronic violin solo here)

You who suffer with your stones, seek Sisyphus

I am but the Harbinger, but hearken to my call

Be sure to listen most intently

To the fourth track on his first disc

And the fifth song on his second

The final on his third reveals it all!

Do not fear if Sisyphus grows silent for a time--

He is giving you a chance to really see

He shall return and bring the final

Secrets chiselled on the vinyl

Of his next release

We'll all be free!

(Repeat first verse, urging the audience to sing along, milk it for all you can, and crash to a sustained stop)

Some people say that

Change is hard

But is it really?

These people usually

Think of themselves as

Sponges

Absorbing and rejecting

Ideas on a

Subconscious level

But

Remaining relatively

Unchanged by

The way they live

By their thoughts

By their hopes

By their own suppressed wishes

And to change

Would mean

Changing the entirety

Of what makes you

You.

When in reality

We are like a grove

Trees in a hurricane.

The wind moves

Our leaves and branches

In ways they've

Never danced before

The winds can

Turn them toward the sun

Turn them away

It can send them

Up

Down

Or

Around and

Around and

Around and

Around in

Endless circles

Of thought

Sometimes

If the winds are

Strong enough

An idea is shaken

At the foundation

And ripped up

Roots

Trunk

Branches

Leaves

And all

You find yourself

Wondering if

That idea was even

Worth the effort

Put into it

Because

You feel fine

Without it

The point is

No matter if you

Go back

To believing what you did before

You still moved

And those trees will

Never

Be exactly the same

Again

Every thought you have

Changes your grove

Microscopically

Until

You look around

And find those

Ideas you have

Cultivated

For so long

Grew into a forest of

Unshakably

Strong

Giants

With roots

Too deep to

Ever

Be moved

And you spread

The seeds

Every time you

Open your mouth

And

Speak out

Planting those ideas

In another's head

Whether it be

In the deepest

Recesses of their mind

Or the forefront

Of their thoughts

It will grow

And change

And maybe it will be

Ripped up by the roots

And discarded

But it is still there

It always will be

But don't take my word for it

Look around you

You'll realize that

You've been

Standing in

A grove of

Growing,

Twisting,

Changing,

Giants

All along.

Do I love you

Because you are beautiful?

Are you beautiful

Because I love you?

It doesn't matter;

You are beautiful

And I love you.

(Nashville, Circa 2011; There is always a “Bad Part of Town”. Me and a homie got detoured off I-40 onto the infamous Dickerson Road, with our tank on fumes and dusk beginning to fall. This song wrote itself when I made it back to ‘CanaDixie Palace’ in Nashboro Village. It’s a pretty basic Blues-Rock-Gospel tune with sharp syncopation, key of D.)

Detoured down Dickerson Road

Little brother by my side

I saw our gas was almost gone

And prayed that we would ride

The hell out of that place

Before we came to stall

At the corner of Rock & HIV

Without a soul to call, a soul to call

Chorus:

If it’s cut or if you’re caught

Or not worth the price you bought

Ain’t no use to raise your voice

It’s always Dealer’s Choice

Hoes and Bangers struttin’

Civility means nothin’

And there's nothin’ here to score

That won’t cost us much more

Than we can afford

Oh Lord Jesus, take us home

We got no cell phone

And no stomach for this road, for this road

(Lead guitar and harmonica solo, street sounds, hookers and dealers yelling out their wares, faint police sirens, gunshots, etc.)

Repeat Chorus

(Ad lib appropriate trash talk as you gradually slow down and fade out)