I published my book.

Hello, loyal readers.

Once again I come to you sounding like one of those blogging writers in movies about writers to tell you I have published my book. Scratch that. I have self-published my book. Personal autonomy and all that.

What does it feel like to come this far and actually self-publish my book? After eleven years and sixty plus days since first typing the words “Chapter One” on October 1st, 2011…

Well, it doesn’t feel like I’m editing a Word document anymore. There’s a finished book out there on the world wide web for *anyone* to go out there 

All that can happen now is people can ridicule it to death to boost their egos is all. So, I’m almost doing the cynics of the world a favor. You’re welcome.

Hemingway himself says in A Moveable Feast, “look, if you can’t write why don’t you learn to write criticism? Then you can always write. You won’t ever have to worry about it not coming nor being mute and silent. People will read it and respect it.”

People love a cynical voice to congregate around and hold their heads high for being better than the artist, the one who has exposed himself to said criticism.

It’s very easy to critique. Being published is certainly a little more exposure than hiding away in your cave. I think it’s better to share with the world than to hide. But don’t think being published will somehow automatically change anything.

Sure, you’re not hiding on your own hard drive anymore with your unpublished stories and work. You’ve completely exposed yourself. But don’t think the journey in any way has come to an end.