Tag Archives: freedom

Why I Love Being Indie!

I think from a young age I’ve always been independent, always looking for a way to forge a new path and climb a steep hill and do it mainly on my own. So joining onto the Indiebooksbeseen and the Indie movement is something that was bound to happen.

A little bit of history…

I wrote my first YA supernatural novel in the spring of 2010, having read a zillion books through my younger life and realizing that I truly understood the necessarily elements that belonged in a YA novel without going over the edge. I’m funny and a bit edgy myself, so I figured I could do this book thing. Can I just tell you that writing the 90,000 word / 500 page novel was the easy part.

After getting more people than necessary to edit the book I began to research the query/agent/publisher map. How was I going to get this great story in front of the right people and better yet, make the time to do all of these non-writing activities to get the book published? I’m sad to say that I spent three times the amount of energy and effort on trying to get the book noticed than I did creating it. Crazy!

The whole effort ended with a great story, 200 rejections, months and months of beating my head against the wall, tons of dollars to attend this event and use this template and yadda… yadda… Finally – I put the manuscript in a drawer and said to hell with it.

The rest of the story…

Four years later I was done being poked by a good writer friend of mine who’d fallen in LOVE with Soul Keeper back in 2010 and finally opened the drawer to dust it off. A few good writer friends of mine had gone “Indie”. I pushed back against them a little and asked 2 million questions as I wasn’t in the mood to spend money or emotional energy on a project that seemed to be going nowhere.

However, with loads of nudging and reassurance I decided I’d self-publish my books and if nothing else – they’d be loud and proud on my own shelf. So let me tell you why I love being Indie.

1. No one will ever love my book as much as me. It’s my creation and having the freedom to choose what it looks like and where the plot goes is all mine to decide. I don’t have someone standing over my shoulder making it “better” by their definition of “better.”

2. I can spend as little or as much time, energy and money as I want. Obviously the more I put into it, the more I’m going to get out of it, but that’s with anything in life. The cool part is that if I’m a good editor or if I can design my own cover, then those are costs to be saved and skills to be used.

3. I belong. In a world of independent authors I find myself fitting in just perfectly. We all work hard and dream big and the encouragement is beyond belief. I don’t have to write a certain genre or stick to a certain structure in the plot. I simply write, promote and support and honestly feel great about myself at the end of the day.

Being an Indie author, to me, doesn’t really have anything to do with being Independent though. It’s a statement that says I’m capable of making every step along this book writing/producing platform to take a dream from start to finish. The truth of what Indie authors are doing is showing the world that there still exists hope. Hope to dream big and work hard to make that dream a reality.

That’s why I love being Indie!

L.

Check out this link: https://clrozelle.wordpress.com/2014/12/08/10-things-that-suck-and-rock-about-being-an-indie-author-part-1/

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Random Scene Writing: Always the same…

The air smelled of sulfur, the icy road before me doing nothing to quell my curiosity as velvet colored smoke lifted in the air just beyond my reach. A soft coo of a Nightingale lifted in the wind around me and almost gave me pause.

A warning? A welcome? Just simply a murmur from the small creature…

The wind picked up as the moon stole the audience of the night, it’s iridescent glow giving life to shadows that neither held true form nor remained still for too long. My eyes wondered along their motion, my own dark twin walking close and shivering alongside me.

There had to be a reason for the demented dreams of late that stole my rest and yet thrilled the proposition of possibilities that took more definitive form with each night that passed fulfilled. It was always the same story, the same theme and the same dark figure that I knew was full of danger and yet endless freedom dangled at the edge of my reality as I lay asleep in my bed each night.

What seemed to always change was the setting. At times I was thrown in a frenzy trying to juggle the various effects of the dream that were tossed my way and in that activity I lost my ability to recognize that reality had run from the scene and I was left once again with velvet colored smoke and the soft sounds of midnight life.

He brushed my shoulder as he passed, his steps so very hurried and try as I may, I could move only as someone of languid intent might, my voice finding no depth as a frustrated sigh swept away in the swirling ether just beyond my lips.

A dark suit coat hung over his black slacks, his hair the color of night and his built and demeanor labeling him as important. He noticed me not, or if he did, I was left unaware of it. I tried to reach out toward him, but he was a noticeable distance ahead and the space around me didn’t allow for conscious movement at all.

Frustrated and rather confused I willed my legs to move faster and yet the consorted effort awarded me simply with refusal. He stopped just before reaching a small wooden bridge that spanned the length of the rushing water below and turned to look at me, no… through me.

Sadness filled the confines of my chest as the emotion etched upon his handsome features spoke of loss and despair. He pressed two finger to his lips, kissed them and threw the affection into the night sky as if hoping that someone might catch it and cherish it again. Was that someone me?

I closed my eyes only for a moment, the rushing of a million wings delivered fear to my system and small bumps of chill covered my exposed arms and legs, the man long gone without a trace as I managed to regain sight, my knees giving out before me as I crumbled into the waiting snow.

It was always the same story, the same theme, but tonight, it was a different character. Or was it? I’d never before seen his face and perhaps never would again.