I have never- not once- wanted to be an author or published.
I would’ve been a teen author if that was the case. I had people complimenting my writing my entire life.
I never aimed to be an author or a published poet.
Back in 2012, I was persuaded to try. It took a year for me to be persuaded. They said my work mattered. My stories mattered. I’m skilled. That my skills mattered.
In 2013, I published. I self published. I didn’t have the energy to fight for a traditional consideration. I barely have the energy to do anything. Over the last seven years I have published a bunch of stories and poem books. I’ve been slowly putting more time and effort into my author career.
Only to have nothing come from it. During the last month, I sold zero copies. My biggest sales for the year? I managed to sell five whole copies in a month. If I include my free books, I just barely reach over 100 books “sold”.
I’m not succeeding.
I don’t have extra time or money or skills to offer. I’ve quit every sales job I ever tried. I can’t do it.
The only chance my stories have for success is if I’m famous first. Because then sales happen whether I do something or not.
I tried giveaways and sales and chattering and being connected to others.
I get to listen to others who struggle the same.
It’s nice to see some succeed. Who have the time, space, effort, money, etc to succeed.
I have nothing.
I don’t have a group of people who are supporting me as an author. They’re just keeping me alive. I’m one step from homelessness. I’m one step from hunger. I’m one step from losing everything.
Seven years, Cat Hartliebe has existed.
Seven years of failure.
And don’t think this is a last minute decision. A year and a half ago, I had to quit my job. It was damaging to my health. I had to quit. So I decided I could try and see if this was a feasible possibility.
And the more I chatter, the less confident I feel with my work.
I gave myself six months to get this off the ground a year and a half ago. Okay, so part of it was the pandemic happened and I really had no choice but to steel myself for the coming chaos.
But for the last few months, my hope has completely dried up as Cat Hartliebe.
Cat Hartliebe needs to go.
They need to disappear. Pretend they never existed.
They don’t exist. They shouldn’t exist. They’re worthless. They had seven years to prove something. They proved nothing.
It’s time to cut losses. Find another direction. One where my time is valuable. Where I’m not a wasted space.
Cat Hartliebe has just been a long list of failures. Of trying and failing repeatedly. I’ll never succeed as an author or as a poet.
I’m sorry if you thought I am more than I am. I’m not.
My decades of writing experience means jack when it comes to publishing. And even if that part is even partially acceptable. I can’t market. I can’t sell. I can’t sell anything. I never could.
And to sell something that is a piece of me? Impossible.
I can give away my heart.
I can’t sell it.
CatHartliebe.com will exist until July 2021. Because I paid for the year. It was another wasted expense. It is currently the only place you can buy my books. I have unpublished everything.
I don’t know what I will do now. But I can’t continue doing the same thing and expect a different result.
I’m a scientist not a fool.