The Truth About Siblings

Sometimes I can be a little dishonest. I try to never lie but at times I can be a little less than forthright with the complete truth.

I am the type of writer that rarely writes without muse or motivation. I’ve never been one to just pick up a pen or begin to type without some outside stimulation guiding my words.

I apologize that I wasn’t upfront about the muse or motivation of my last post entitled, “Where I Wanna Be.” I wrote that piece attempting to trick the reader into believing that success, or lack of success was just an abstract thought that came to mind.

Here’s the truth:

I was in my garage looking for my drill this weekend when I stubbed my toe on a large box. Angrily, I kicked the box and it toppled over spilling its contents all over the garage floor. Books. My books. My unread, unsold books. There they were, 50 of them sprawled all over the ground mocking me.

I wrote a book about two years ago entitled, Siblings. Like a father holding his newborn baby, I had great expectations for that novel. I envisioned my infant narrative growing and developing into a strong, strapping best seller. I was sure that I would carefully hand a copy of Siblings to Oprah Winfrey and she would swoon over its carefully crafted words. Alas, that was not the case. My novel became its parent’s biggest disappointment. My book was an embarrassment and a subject I avoided with disdain. I began to question the validity of my willingness to so freely call myself a writer. I vowed to put down my pen and walk away from the very thing I, for years, wanted desperately to identify with. I was sure that I would never stand amongst the great writers of our time. Who would dare mention my name along side Hemingway, Austen, Ellison, or dare I say – Shakespeare?

I fell deep into a well of self-pity and self-loathing. Why didn’t my novel take wings and fly? Why am I not discussing a possible movie deal with an up and coming Hollywood producer?

The answer is very simple. I put tons of effort into writing the book and no effort into promotion, advertising or sales. Also, I didn’t even send Siblings to Oprah, that’s probably why she didn’t read it. For some strange reason I honestly expected the word to just… get out. I approached my novel the same way we often approach our dreams, half-heartedly. We put so much effort into preparation and execution but not endorsement. We expect validation without self-promotion. Being our own worst critic is what many people are good at. Self-pity is an art form that so many of us have perfected. Self-confidence doesn’t come as easy for many of us.

Some of the most successful people in the world have themselves as their worst critic and their biggest fan. We cannot expect to world to see our greatness if we don’t one, believe it and two, tell the world! The word has to spread from our own mouths that the world is a commodity that we will soon own. It is not enough to wait for others to believe in a truth that we are unsure of.

I have started a new novel and a new plan to promote it. I refuse to believe that I lack the skill or passion to bind my words and make them so interesting that the average reader can’t bring herself to put them down. This time around, my goal is to put as much effort into selling my book as I put into writing it. I have to convince anyone who may stand facing the vast sea of literature that a book by Anthony Massey is definitely worth the read. As for the books in my garage, I went into the house and grabbed a Sharpie and began signing them – all 50 of them. I figure when I’m sitting on the couch next to Oprah discussing my sophomore effort, Siblings will be somewhat of a collector’s item.