Part of me wishes the damascus moment would’ve swept in long before it did, but then again, it wouldn’t be a damascus moment dispensing its so significant punch as it did, nor would it mean as much had I not been on that road so long.
My damascus moment was the seeing how the addition of a dollar sign really corrupts a work of art. Or it ruins it for me. Won’t speak for another. The damage isn’t sudden; it creeps; waves of corruption slowly lick away grains of delight in the sheer frolic in imaginary scenes. I’ll say my intentions were pure.
What’s not to like about the idea of maybe making some money from self-publishing ebooks? Well for me the thing to not like is the reality. Attaching dollar signs to anything makes it business. I guess for someone who can do artsy stuff and business, it would work out okay. My level of proficiency in artsy stuff (namely the realm of imaginative wordsmithery) is open to any critic’s verdict; what I sure the fuck aint, is a businessman-salesman.
All I have to do is remember-review the posts and the moods over the last few years – compare those before falling to the self-publishing allure and what followed; poems and short pieces I posted on this blog when there was not a dollar sign within leagues, and then the shift (an oh so subtle shift) in feel and mood after falling under the self-publishing spell.
What happened was the opposite of what I hoped for, because what a writer-poet hopes for is an audience-readers, even if it’s a small audience of a few who get off. Mainly what occurred was an erosion of the pleasure. Then I got bogged down in fewer works; then came self-consciousness, coupled with wondering what to post and what to hold in reserve.
Readership for my blog dwindled and I never really sold any ebooks. I also began far fewer works. Just kept revisiting a few of the same.
That ain’t no way to have fun.