by Charity Tinnin
“I just can’t imagine self-publishing.” Those were my words, or some approximation of them, in early 2010. I had friends who were doing well in the indie world and support on both sides of the divide. However, my problems were these: I respected (read: had a professional crush on) several agents and editors in the ECPA, longed to work with them, and wanted to see my book on a shelf at Barnes & Noble.
Then I came down with the flu and never got better. By the end of 2011, the doctors confirmed my suspicion: Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS). My case is milder than many, a fact for which I am grateful. However, working full-time became impossible. I didn’t have the energy to work forty hours a week, let alone enough to add writing or a social life to the mix. I had to leave my job. I moved back in with my parents. I saw numerous doctors. One step forward, two steps back.
“I just can’t imagine self-publishing.” Those were my words, or some approximation of them, in early 2010. I had friends who were doing well in the indie world and support on both sides of the divide. However, my problems were these: I respected (read: had a professional crush on) several agents and editors in the ECPA, longed to work with them, and wanted to see my book on a shelf at Barnes & Noble.
Then I came down with the flu and never got better. By the end of 2011, the doctors confirmed my suspicion: Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS). My case is milder than many, a fact for which I am grateful. However, working full-time became impossible. I didn’t have the energy to work forty hours a week, let alone enough to add writing or a social life to the mix. I had to leave my job. I moved back in with my parents. I saw numerous doctors. One step forward, two steps back.
