I am an artist, and I’m sensitive about my shit.

Wrestling with fear today.

Wrestling with an old and familiar friend. Struggling with thoughts of ‘am I good enough’ and ‘will I just end up making a fool of myself?’.

Some people may know that I’ve started to really put myself out of there in the author world. Just this year I’ve had my monthly income increase 10x, just from (mostly) already published books.

It has been an interesting experience and I’ve met some great people, and some not so great people.

Before I really started promoting myself, I knew who my core was. The readers that have been with me since the beginning, throughout the horrible covers, abysmal editing, the long waits between works. They stuck it out with me and for that, they will always have a special place in my heart.

But I couldn’t sustain myself on their love, even as precious as it is. As such, I began promoting myself, and have been doing really well with it. But that means also opening up myself to a larger pool of people who just may hate my work.

I write edgy, dark, twisted kink.

“Oh, like E.L. James?”

Ha. Fuck no.

E.L. James is missionary sex with a forty-year-old virgin compared to what I write.

The monsters are monsters – some are good, some are bad, some are evil and depraved – but all of them are monsters in the most brutal of ways. And I wrote it all out. I did not spare that rod so to speak.

Not to say the work is just endless torture, rape and abuse. No, not at all, I decided to also write this epic story of an anti-hero finding her way through the blood and pain and sickness of the world.

Is it a good story?

I like to think so. But only time will tell if people can get past the pain to see the love.

Now, I want to push forward, promote myself harder, open myself up to a wider pool of people to rip my work to shreds. And I’m afraid.