I just need some time. That was what I told myself. A year at most. Just a little time—to get everything in order, to clear my head, for some quiet.
Some part of me doesn’t like to admit I needed that. Some quiet. But I did. And I do need it. (The rest of me is perfectly fine admitting that, as long as I can keep it to myself. Ha)
My first ‘foray’ into publishing could have been considered that—quiet.
For me, it was anything but.
I’m a simple person, in a great many ways, and I like it that way. For me, that first foray was like a country girl going to the big city for the first time.
Loud, with so many people. Just so much noise that everyone else seems acclimated to, comfortable in, at home with. I felt . . .
There is no way. To do this and be myself. ‘Shameless self-promotion,’ everyone always says. (Or they did back then. Who knows what ‘they’ say now. . . .) I value having a bit more ‘shame’ than is considered normal, and I value modesty more. There’s no way to do this. (How can anyone stand all this noise?)
I tried. Not the shameless self-promotion past what little I could force myself to do without stepping away from myself. I tried to exist in a place that I didn’t belong, and the internal noise it caused nearly broke part of me. Or possibly did break, and I needed to heal from it.
So what am I doing here, you might ask?
I wrote a bunch of books. I love them. I hope some other people might love them. So I’m going to put them out there.
I just learned a valuable lesson (or a thousand) while away. One of them?
There’s a point when stretching yourself turns from helpful to harmful, where it’s contortion.
I’m not going to contort myself.
I had to assess everything. The things I could tolerate.
The things I couldn’t.
I absolutely loved the blog, in some ways. Mostly, the only reason was the people. I met some people that I thought a whole lot of (by that I mean: ‘thought they were great’) (though most probably have/had no idea and have likely forgotten all about me), and I still think about them/wonder how they’re doing.
I really actually kind of hated everything else about it.
I don’t like talking about myself. (Long gone are those days.) I don’t like writing about writing. I don’t like writing for the sake of writing. I don’t like feeling like I have to do it at this time or that time or write about this thing because that thing is what people care about. And it’s all about traffic in the big city.
It reminds me of being in school—being told what to do, when. Only worse.
More than even that, I hated the way it twisted my feelings on my work as a whole.
It can’t be this without that. One thing doesn’t work without the other. It just won’t work.
It was this soul-sucking state of existence that legitimately felt like it was breaking and ripping my spirit apart.
I hate most things about Facebook.
And I hate just about everything about Twitter, though I also met some really great people there as well. That was what I liked—the people. Or some few of them who you—while walking on the busy city streets—happen to meet gazes with. They smile at you, and you feel like . . .
Hey. Wait a second. You noticed me here? I see you, too! Hi!
It’s so nice, for someone to smile at you.
I know there’s a lot of the word ‘hate’ going around in here, and I don’t want to give any wrong kind of impression. (WHAT A MISERABLE PERSON!)
I’m not a miserable person! Also not a hate-filled one, which was part of what made this all so hard. Having to realize you have something like an invader inside your being, and it doesn’t belong, and you can’t really get it out without ceasing to exist in the way everyone says you must. (You just have to give up on what you’ve worked so hard on, of course.)
I’ve never been one for doing what anyone told me, thought, or insisted. Not that I’m a rebel or something. I like rules. Most of the time.
I’ve just always done what I felt was right, whether that was what other people did or expected or not. Made ‘mistakes’ with that here and there (and then back again), but overall, that’s how I’ve lived my life. And something inside me just said . . .
It’s not right. And it’s not right right now.
So, I withdrew. Got back to work.
A lot happened while away, most I won’t delve into (and certainly wouldn’t/won’t do ‘publicly’).
When I left for my break, I was—what I thought was—happily married. It’s funny, sometimes and in some ways, how invaders can get into you and convince you of untrue things. And happy can be a funny little word. (I learned that.)
The day that ended? It was like . . .
Not realizing you had a dark cloud enveloping you until that breaks, and light comes through. That light can hurt your eyes sometimes! But another thing I’ve learned while away?
It takes forever to try to force yourself to acclimate to things that are wrong for you, and acclimating to the good/right?
It’s almost instantaneous. In its ways. (That’s not mentioning any hard work involved, simply acclimation.)
I’ve never been happier in my life. Even with the fear that comes at times of facing the rest of life here ‘alone’? (That’s not me being dramatic. Just the way it’s to be.)
Never been happier.
I’ve worked really hard and do work really hard—to be the best I can be, do the best I can—knowing that sometimes you’ve got to get your feet under you before you can really reach a hand out to help someone else.
I’ve always wanted to help people. In my own, weird ways that are maybe a little quieter and more distant than most.
I’m just focusing on that. And the books?
I’ve spent more than a decade now trying to work through things. Life, and people, questions, solutions.
I set off with the intention: If I could just help one person.
I didn’t know the person was going to be me.
But I’m grateful. For these years. For the work. For the time I’ve had to work through all that I did. To have learned. Grown.
The books make me laugh. They make me cry. At times, they feel like they’re tearing my heart to shreds.
Then they put it right back together, but somehow in better state than when it started.
And I almost didn’t want to release any for that reason—because it’s very much like putting my insides on display. Not that they’re ‘me’ but showing, in ways, what I needed to work through without having a single clue that was what I was doing or needed until after it was already done.
What if they could help one more person?
Put a smile on someone’s face, when they feel like they can’t? (They’ve done it for me.)
Give some hope, that things will get better. (They’ve done it for me.)
Tell someone . . .
You matter.
They’ve certainly done that for me.
So.
It’s only right, isn’t it? To share them.
I’m just not going to twist myself into some misshapen thing that I’m just . . . not. Because it’s okay to be me and just as I am. (Though strengthening/stretching can be good!) How could I say that in my books then do the complete opposite thing because ‘it’s what you have to do’?
Nah.
So (again).
I’m probably not going to be posting things on here. I’m probably not going to be posting much of anything anywhere but on my website. Where I can keep things on what’s important to me—the books, period. Simple, clean, no muss, no fuss.
I might on occasion post a picture or something (either book stuff or maybe a really nice tree I might pass). Or just a random collection of updates. Probably not on here, though.
My website is going to be where all information is.
My newsletter will be where I send out news of new releases and such. (And an occasional letter or two. But this is me we’re talking about. My perception of ‘occasional’? It’s probably not what people are used to. What I mean about ‘an occasional letter’ (without release information) is maybe (MAYBE) a couple/few a year.)
If I get on here, I might just go peruse to see how everyone is doing. Which I hope is SO WELL. I truly do—hope everyone is and has been well. Will be well.
If you don’t remember me?
Know I almost certainly remember you. (I remember almost everyone I ever come in contact with or so much as ‘walk past’ in any sense.)
If you do remember me?
Know I surely remember you as well, have likely thought about you at least a handful of times, and have sent some generalized good energy out into the universe on your behalf here or there. And know I’ll surely keep doing as much.
I also want to thank any and everyone who has ever given my work words of encouragement, whether to me directly or in a review. You don’t know how much it helped, or how much I at times (when breaking out of dark clouds) needed that help. Thank you, not just from a standpoint of loving my work and hoping other people might enjoy it. The words might’ve been a sentence or two (no big deal) to you.
They meant the world to me.
Maybe somewhere in the few million words I’ve written?
I’ll pay you back somehow, for something I don’t know how I possibly could. But that’s the beauty of words, isn’t it? You string them together in a certain way, and they can be precisely what someone needs without you even knowing they need it.
I love words. I’m going to ensure that right there is what I focus on.
❤
Hoping for so much happiness for everyone!
My website: www.cmillerauthor.com
You can sign up for my newsletter there, or here, if you want!
If you read any of my books?
I hope you love them. And thank you. (And if you could? If you love them enough? Can you maybe do some shouting for them? Shouting in any sense, for me, is like trying to walk upside down, using my head as feet. (Singular/plural confusion and all.))
❤ ‘Quiet/Happy in the Country’ – C
Hey. If you like books . . .? I wrote a few . . .
Dozen. . . .
I like them. Maybe you might?
Books are coming! Many, many books. . . .