Will your first book sell?

In my case, no, because it’s busy decomposing in the Magical Mulch Pile under my bed.

In your CP/chaptermate/neighbor’s case? Who knows.
In anyone else’s case? Who knows.
In your case? Who knows.

And I posit: Who cares? Move forward!

Because (wait for it! Here it comes with Gump-like goodness!) a career in writing is like a career in ice sculpting.

With me? No? Let me explain.

Ice sculptures are cool, right? (Heh, literally.) They’re fun to look at, they’re time-consuming, they’re something most people don’t do well unless they’ve practiced. Yanno, kinda like writing.

I’m sure there’s as many styles and processes for ice sculpture making as there are writing novels, and probably you try a few before you find the one that’s right for you.

And after a few fits and spurts (chainsaw malfunctions, ears melt off your self-portrait, etc) finally you have before you your Very First Ice Sculpture. And maybe it’s awesome. (Maybe it’s not, but lets assume it is. *g)

So what do you do? Quit your day job in the button factory?

Not on one ice sculpture. Not if you want an ice sculpture career. What you do is you tell the world about your fabulosity with a chunk of ice and you set about trying to get commissioned to make more ice sculptures.

Personal anecdote. (Not about ice sculptures. I don’t go anywhere cold enough to freeze water.)

I dated a guy who couldn’t understand why I continued to write new stories when I hadn’t sold my first story. He accused me of “abandoning” that first story. He suggested I give up writing altogether because obviously no one was interested since that first story hadn’t sold.

Here’s what I think.

Like ice sculpting, writing is an art. If I were a sculptor or a painter or a composer [let’s go with painter], and I said, “Ah ha! Here is my One Great Work! As of this moment, I am an official, card-carrying Painter!” and then proceeded to sit on my butt waiting for money to roll in, what would you say to me?

Hopefully you would fish-slap me and say, “Erica, give me a freaking break! You’re going to retire on one unsold watercolor? You might sell your first, but you better make more just in case. Get out your paints. Get out your brush. A painter paints. Get busy!”

(Especially if you were counting on me footing half the mortgage. *g)

A sculptor sculpts, a painter paints, a composer composes. Maybe that first work sells. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the second or third or twelfth thing that sells, and makes all the previous works suddenly desirable. (Sometimes this can happen posthumously, but let’s think positive, shall we?)

A writer writes.

Whether you’ve sold your first book or not, whether you do sell your first book or not, do not let anybody–anybody–make you feel bad/depressed/worthless for painting your paintings or writing your stories or sculpting in ice, regardless of whether any one particular project brings in the big bucks.

Every word you write is practice, and every curve life throws is fodder.

Live it. Enjoy it. Write it.