I wrote my first novel, Inca Gold, Spanish Blood, in 2015. By the time I really started to work on it, I’d been a dedicated writer—meaning, I knew that writing was who I am, not what I do—for decades. By then I’d written not only books but countless magazine articles, essays, white papers, poetry, training manuals, and short stories. I’d read every book on writing I could find, and every book recommended by people who write books about writing. I had favorite authors across many genres, and I knew why they were favorites. I had attended writing workshops; I was in numerous writing groups; and I wrote constantly—not in the self-flagellant ‘force yourself to get up at 5 AM every morning and write for two hours before going to work’ way, but whenever the mood struck—which was nearly every day. Sometimes all I wrote was a paragraph, or a meaningful sentence; sometimes I wrote 40 or 50 pages. All that matters is that I wrote. 

I developed the Zen-like patience required to deal with the publishing world. I accepted the fact that the magic number for submitting an article or a manuscript or pretty much any new material to publishers is around 30, meaning, the number of publishers you must submit to, on average, before one of them takes the bait. 

And, I learned the secrets of getting noticed by an editor. I learned that the phrase “Submission Guidelines” is a lie. It should say, “Don’t even THINK about straying from these iron-clad, inviolable, unwavering, universally-applied rules for submitting your work to the publishing gods if you want anyone to even consider looking at your submission.” 

I developed a carefully-curated Council of Druids, my personal cadre of editors, each of which has the same fundamental characteristics: they’re voracious readers; they’re endlessly curious; and they’re willing to read what I write and provide detailed, brutally-naked feedback. Do you know what’s less-than-useless to a writer? Someone who provides a crazed smile, two thumbs-up, and the word ‘awesome’ as their feedback to a written piece. Empty calories. My Druids, on the other hand, are never afraid to say, “Steve, with all the love in my heart, you need to drop this back into whatever swamp you dredged it out of, and here’s why.” In other words, they actually provide feedback that’s meaningful and that can be acted upon. And as much as it hurts sometimes, I carefully read and consider, and usually incorporate, every single comment. Their reading makes my writing better.

As a result of all this, I learned my way around the English language. I became grammatically proficient. I paid close attention and learned how dialogue works—and why it often doesn’t. I found myself reading about 140 books every year, and because of that I developed an extensive vocabulary and an awareness of when not to use polysyllabic words, just because I know them (thank you, Mr. Hemingway). I paid careful attention to structure and flow. I began to realize that genre is merely a suggestion: that some of the best books have elements of romance, science fiction, history, travel, global affairs, poetry, and politics, in spite of the label they’re given by the bookstore. 

I also trained myself to ignore the naysayers, the trolls who make it their mission to savage other peoples’ work because they can. They’re cowards, hiding behind the bastion of the Internet. Some reviewers give constructive or kind comments, and for those I’m grateful. But many don’t. Do NOT let their negative comments slow you down. You wrote a book, dammit. They didn’t. Ignore them for the miserable people they are.

I began to understand that I write so that others may read. When I drive my grandkids home after a day with my wife and me, I take the responsibility very seriously indeed. And when I take my readers on a journey, I take the responsibility no less seriously.

So, you can imagine how I felt when I found myself running into roadblock after roadblock as I tried to get a publisher to look at my novel. Here’s what was clattering around in my head, like a handful of marbles. I clearly knew how to write because I’d been doing it for a long time. I was published many times over by big, well-known houses, and I had two bestsellers to my name. I always met or exceeded deadlines. Yet time and again I submitted, and time and again I got back … nothing. Crickets. Even though I followed the submission rules, I didn’t even get rejection letters to add to my already impressive folder of same.

So, I called my editor at one of the big houses whom I had known for years and with whom I had created many successful books—and a genuine friendship. I explained my situation to him, knowing that he doesn’t publish fiction but hoping he could provide some insight. He did, and his response was blunt: 

“Steve, here’s what you’re facing. The fact that you have had major success in the non-fiction realm is meaningless to editors in the world of fiction. The firewall that exists between the two domains is so thick that it’s as if you have never written or been published at all.” 

And this was the clincher: “Your chances of getting this book published are roughly the same, whether you submit it or not.”

Bummer.

This glaring realization kicked off a new chapter in my writing. I ended up self-publishing the novel, and it did well. I then wrote a second, self-published it, and it became a number-one global bestseller on Amazon for a few weeks. I wrote two more, and they also did well—not bestsellers, but readers buy them and like them. And what I realized, and frankly, what I knew all along, was that in some ways, getting a book published was more important to me than writing one. That was a significant realization, and it changed how I think about why I write, because it was the wrong perspective for a writer. Yes, of course I want my work to be published, but first, I’m a writer. Writing is enormously creative; publishing is enormously mechanical. And when I write, I write for my readers and I take that responsibility seriously. But honestly, I write for myself. I write books that I would like to read. It makes me feel good. It challenges me, forces me to work hard to be better at it. 

As writers—all writers, regardless of genre—our goal should be to write books that people want to read, and who then come back for more after they’ve done so. We shouldn’t write for the likes, or the thumbs-ups; those are more empty calories. We write because we have something to say that matters. If we do that, our audiences will find us. 

I’m currently writing sequels to two of my novels: Inca Gold, Spanish Blood, and Russet. Russet is my most recent work, so the characters and plot line are still fresh in my mind. But Inca Gold came out in 2016 and I had forgotten some of the story’s details, and I’m embarrassed to say, the names of some of the characters. So, I put on my reader hat, picked up the book, and read it, ignoring the fact that I was its author. And I mean, I really read it. And you know what? I liked it. A lot. It didn’t waste my time, and it made me want to read more. And that’s all the motivation I need to keep going.